FROM   CHAUCER   TO   ARNOLD 


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GEOFFREY   CHAUCER 


-F  l^\  I 


From  Chaucer  to  Arnold 

TYPES   OF  LITERARY  ART 


IN    PROSE   AND   VERSE 


AN  INTRODUCTION   TO  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 
WITH  PREFACE  AND  NOTES 

BY 

ANDREW  J.   GEORGE,  A.M. 

DEPARTMENT  OF  ENGLISH,   HIGH  SCHOOL,   NEWTON,   MASS. 

Editor  of  Wordsworth's  "  Prelude,"  "  The  Shorter 

Poems  of  Milton,"  "  The  Select  Poems 

OF  Burns,"  etc. 


"  Books,  we  know. 
Are  a  substantial  world,  both  pure  and  good : 
Round  these,  with  tendrils  strong  as  flesh  and  blood, 
Our  pastime  and  our  happiness  will  grow." 

Wordsworth 


THE    MACMILLAN   COMPANY 

LONDON :  MACMILLAN  &  CO.,  Ltd. 
1899 

All  rights  reserved 


Copyright,  1898, 
By  the  MACMILLAN  COMPANY. 


Set  up  and  electrotyped  August,  1898.     Reprinted  November, 
1898;  September,  1899. 


NoTfnooti  ^rte« 

J.  8.  Cuihing  k  Co.  -  Berwick  k  jmith 
Norwood  IfM*.  V.S.X. 


TO  THE  PUPILS  OF  THE  NEWTON  HIGH  SCHOOL, 
WHOSE  SYMPATHY  AND  APPRECIATION  HAVE  MADE 
MY  WORK  A   DELIGHT,    I   INSCRIBE  THIS   VOLUME. 

A.   J.    G. 


Truth  is  within  ourselves :  it  takes  no  rise 
From  outward  things,  whate'er  you  may  believe : 
There  is  an  inmost  centre  in  us  all, 
"Where  truth  abides  in  fulness ;  and  around, 
Wall  upon  wall,  the  gross  flesh  hems  it  in. 
This  perfect,  clear  perception  —  which  is  truth; 
A  baffling  and  perverting  carnal  mesh 
Blunts  it  and  makes  it  error :  and  '  to  know ' 
Rather  consists  in  opening  out  a  way 
Whence  the  imprisoned  splendor  may  escape, 
Than  in  effecting  entry  for  a  light 
Supposed  to  be  without. 

Browning's  Paracelsus. 


PREFACE 


"Image  the  whole,  then  execute  the  parts,— 
Fancy  the  fabric 
Quite,  ere  you  build." 

The  present  volume  is  the  result  of  long  experience  in  a 
large  school  which  combines  the  features  of  a  Latin  and  an 
English  High  School.  It  illustrates  the  work  in  preparation 
for  the  study  of  the  great  authors,  in  verse  and  prose,  who 
have  made  the  most  distinctive  contribution  to  English 
literature  and  life.  When  the  pupil  has  gained  a  general 
view  of  the  field  of  English  literature,  a  speaking  acquaint- 
ance with  the  authors,  and  an  idea  of  the  principles  of  liter- 
ary evolution  which  this  book  reveals,  he  is  ready  for 
extended  study  of  those  artists  whose  work  is  central  and 
formative  in  each  period,  the  great  classics  of  our  literature. 
While  the  book  is  thus  intended  to  be  an  introduction 
through  t)^es  —  only  a  means  to  the  end  of  forming  perma- 
nent literary  friendships  —  it  is  fairly  representative  of  the 
best  to  be  found  in  English  literary  art  from  Chaucer  to 
Arnold,  and  hence  it  has  a  value  of  its  own. 

The  annotation  is  confined  to  the  purpose  of  naturally 
leading  the  pupil  to  look  for  those  principles  which  are 
fundamental,  such  as  will  guide  him  into  broader  fields  of 
literature,  history,  and  criticism  —  happy  pastures  in  which 
he  may  range  at  will.  This  I  believe  is  the  great  end  for 
which  we  should  strive  in  the  teaching  of  English,  and  it  is 


viii  PREFACE 

quite  as  important  in  the  college  preparatory  work  as  in 
that  of  the  general  course. 

The  volume  is  thus  a  natural  outcome  of  the  method  and 
spirit  of  our  work  in  the  Newton  High  School.  It  is  pre- 
pared to  meet  a  need  in  our  own  course,  and  also  in 
response  to  requests  of  many  teachers  of  English  who 
have  become  interested  in  that  course,  and  desire  to  have 
the  means  of  following  it  in  its  essential  features.  It  does 
not  offer  any  royal  road  to  appreciation  of  literature,  only 
the  very  simple  and  natural  one  of  thoughtful  and  sympa- 
thetic reading,  in  an  atmosphere  of  wise  passiveness. 

While  purposely  keeping  the  matter  of  the  history  of  lit- 
erature in  the  background,  I  have  given  in  the  Introduction 
and  Notes  a  few  principles  which  it  is  hoped  may  prove 
stimulative.  Literary  education  is  of  the  heart  rather  than 
of  the  head,  a  process  of  spiritual  apprehension  and  assimi- 
lation ;  and  hence  Histories  of  Literature  are  of  Uttle  use 
until  enthusiasm  is  developed.  A  genuine  enthusiasm  will 
rapidly  assimilate  the  spiritual  content  of  a  work  of  genius, 
whereby  alone  there  can  be  any  genuine  growth. 

"  Think  you,  'mid  all  this  mighty  sum 
Of  things  forever  speaking, 
That  nothing  of  itself  will  come, 
But  we  must  still  be  seeking?  " 

Limited  space  has  necessitated  the  exclusion  of  some 
whose  work  I  would  have  included. 

A.  J.  G. 
Brookline,  Mass.,  June,  1898. 


INTRODUCTION 

In  the  study  of  great  movements  in  the  history  of  our 
literature  we  should  observe  certain  principles.  We  should 
not  attempt  to  place  rigid  boundaries  to  these  movements ; 
we  should  view  literature  as  an  organic  whole, —  the  revela- 
tion of  the  complex  life  which  created  it.  As  the  soil, 
atmosphere  and  general  environment  determine  in  a  great 
degree  the  growth  of  the  plant  and  the  character  of  its  fruit, 
30  every  experience  through  which  a  nation  passes  deter- 
mines the  kind  of  literature  and  art  it  will  produce.  It  is 
natural  that  the  literature  of  a  new  people  should  have  its 
Formative  Period,  a  period  in  which  soil  is  being  prepared 
by  a  great  variety  of  experiences.  The  student  should, 
therefore,  have  some  knowledge  of  the  forces  at  work  in 
young  England  which  evolved  the  matin  song  of  our  lan- 
guage in  Chaucer.  The  contact  with  the  Romans  through 
war ;  the  Roman  influence  which  came  with  the  introduction 
of  Christianity  ;  the  establishment  of  the  school  of  Csedmon 
at  Whitby  and  of  Alfred  at  Winchester ;  the  destruction 
wrought  in  the  literature  of  the  north  by  inroads  of  the 
Danes ;  the  refining  influence  of  the  Normans,  and  the 
splendid  energy  of  the  native  tongue  by  which  it  rose  to  a 
position  of  power  and  beauty  until  it  broke  forth  in  the  full- 
throated  ease  of  Chaucer,  in  the  poetry  of  life,  love  and  duty  : 
these  are  distinctly  formative  forces. 

In  England's  contact  with  the  Italian  Revival,  a  contact 
due  to  the  attraction  which  the  New  Learning  had  for  the 


X  INTR  OD  UC  TION 

younger  generation,  we  have  the  beginning  of  the  Period 
of  Italian  Influence  introduced  by  Wyatt  and  Surrey.  It 
is  this  element  which  gives  the  new  direction  to  art  undei 
Elizabeth.  The  invention  of  printing,  the  expansion  in 
material  resources,  the  spirit  of  adventure  and  discovery, 
and  the  religious  spirit  developed  by  the  English  Bible, 
which  fostered  the  desire  for  independence,  all  contributed 
to  the  formation  of  the  rich  and  varied  literature  of  the 
period. 

In  the  period  intervening  between  Elizabeth  and  the 
Restoration  we  find  the  great  name  of  Milton,  who  may  be 
called  the  last  of  the  Elizabethans  ;  for  while  his  work  reveals 
the  sublime  dignity  born  of  Puritanism,  it  is  distinguished  for 
the  charm  of  childhood  and  grace  of  youth  which  charac- 
terized the  Renaissance.  It  is  the  happy  union  of  art  and 
faith.  The  forces  against  which  Puritanism  arrayed  itself 
triumphed  in  the  Restoration,  and  the  new  ideas  in  church 
and  state  became  supreme.  French  models  in  literature  and 
life  emanated  from  the  court.  Under  Elizabeth  there  was  a 
healthy  simplicity,  and  the  poet  wrote  with  his  eye  upon  the 
subject;  but  now  there  was  constrained  and  formal  etiquette, 
and  the  poet  wrote  with  his  eye  upon  style.  Subjects,  too, 
changed.  We  have  now  such  as  appeal  to  the  intellect 
rather  than  to  the  whole  nature,  and  poetry  becomes  didac- 
tic, satiric,  philosophical.  What  was  mere  spirit  is  now  mere 
form.  Poetry  was  seized  by  the  wing  and  confined  within 
the  bounds  of  the  rhymed  couplet.  If  spiritual  east  winds 
blew  and  no  great  poet  spoke  out,  we  must  not  forget  that 
this  period  of  French  Influence  gave  us  splendid  specimens 
of  graceful  and  sinewy  prose.  The  wits  who  gathered  in 
the  coffee  houses  to  discuss  politics,  literature,  and  social 
manners,  furnished  the  material  for  the  essay,  and  it  in  turn 
gave  rise   to   the   newspaper   and   periodical.     The   essay 


INTRODUCTION  xi 

expanded  into  the  novel  of  adventure  or  society,  while  the 
orator  reached  his  constituents  through  the  pamphlet,  and 
the  critics  levelled  their  guns  from  behind  the  pages  of  the 
quarterlies. 

During  this  efflorescence  of  prose  the  great  principle  of 
equality  for  which  Milton  and  Vane  had  stood  began  to  take 
root  in  the  soil  of  France,  producing  that  tremendous  up- 
heaval known  as  the  French  Revolution.  Life  in  England 
had  become  deeper,  and  man's  nature  sought  the  wholesome 
atmosphere  of  faith  and  action.  The  result  was  the  rise  of 
Methodism,  and  the  splendid  work  of  Howard  and  Wilber- 
force ;  Pitt's  reign  of  expansion  saw  the  rise  of  democracy ; 
a  republic  was  established  in  America.  It  is  not  surprising, 
therefore,  that  such  an  awakening  should  be  accompanied 
by  an  equal  vigor  in  the  realm  of  poetry.  Gray  goes  to  the 
little  churchyard  ;  Goldsmith  to  the  obscure  country  village  ; 
Cowper  muses  by  the  languid  Ouse,  while  song  springs  full 
formed  from  the  rugged  soil  upturned  by  the  rustic  Plough- 
man on  the  Ayrshire  hills,  and  the  Modern  Period  has  begun, 
the  mission  of  which  is  to  teach  how  verse  may  build  a 
princely  throne  on  humble  truth.  With  Coleridge  are  devel- 
oped new  ideas  of  criticism ;  with  Wordsworth  the  new 
poetry  wins  even  against  the  accredited  critics  of  the  school 
of  Dryden  and  Pope. 

"  A  hundred  years  ere  he  to  manhood  came, 

Song  from  celestial  heights  had  wandered  down. 
Put  off  her  robe  of  sunlight,  dew  and  flame, 

And  donned  a  modish  dress  to  charm  the  town. 

Thenceforth  she  but  festooned  the  porch  of  things; 

Apt  at  life's  lore,  incurious  what  life  meant. 
Dextrous  of  hand,  she  struck  her  lute's  few  strings; 

Ignobly  perfect,  barrenly  content. 


301  INTRODUCTION 

The  age  grew  sated  with  her  sterile  wit. 

Herself  waxed  weary  on  her  loveless  throne. 
Men  felt  life's  tide,  the  sweep  and  surge  of  it. 

And  craved  a  living  voice,  a  natural  tone. 

For  none  the  less,  though  song  was  but  half  true. 
The  world  lay  common,  one  abounding  theme. 

Man  joyed  and  wept,  and  fate  was  ever  new, 
And  love  was  sweet,  life  real,  death  no  dream. 

In  sad,  stern  voice  the  nigged  scholar-sage 
Bemoaned  his  toil  unvalued,  youth  uncheered. 

His  numbers  wore  the  vesture  of  the  age, 

But,  'neath  it  beating,  the  great  heart  was  heard. 

From  dewy  pastures,  uplands  sweet  with  thyme, 
A  virgin  breeze  freshened  the  jaded  day. 

It  wafted  Collins'  lonely  vesper-chime, 

It  breathed  abroad  the  frugal  note  of  Gray. 

It  fluttered  here  and  there,  nor  swept  in  vain 
The  dusty  haunts  where  futile  echoes  dwell. 

Then,  in  a  cadence  soft  as  summer  rain. 

And  sad  from  Auburn  voiceless,  drooped  and  fell. 

It  drooped  and  fell,  and  one  'neath  northern  skies. 
With  southern  heart,  who  tilled  his  father's  field, 

Found  Poesy  a-dying,  bade  her  rise 

And  touch  quick  nature's  hem  and  go  forth  healed. 

On  life's  broad  plain  the  ploughman's  conquering  share 
Upturned  the  fallow  lands  of  truth  anew. 

And  o'er  the  formal  garden's  trim  parterre 
The  peasant's  team  a  ruthless  furrow  drew. 

Bright  was  his  going  forth,  but  clouds  ere  long 

Whelmed  him;   in  gloom  his  radiance  set,  and  those 

Twin  morning  stars  of  our  new  century's  song, 
Those  morning  stars  that  sang  together,  rose. 


INTRODUCTION  Xlli 

In  eUnsh  speech  the  Dreamer  told  his  tale 
Of  marvellous  oceans  swept  by  fateful  wings. 

The  Seer  strayed  not  from  earth's  human  pole. 
But  the  mysterious  face  of  common  things 

He  mirrored  as  the  moon  in  Rydal  Mere 

Is  mirrored,  when  the  breathless  night  hangs  blue : 

Strangely  remote  she  seems  and  wondrous  near, 
And  by  some  nameless  difference  born  anew."  ^ 

On  the  splendor  of  literature  and  life  at  the  century's  mid- 
day, and  the  tender  beauty  of  its  early  gloaming,  we  need 
not  dwell,  as  the  forces  which  were  potent  in  creating  that 
splendor  and  beauty  are  familiar  to  all.  Through  the  puis- 
sant voice  of  Carlyle,  the  beautifully  simple  faith  of  New- 
man, and  the  noble  passion  of  Ruskin ;  through  the  imperial 
note  of  Tennyson,  the  manly  vigor  of  Browning,  the  strength 
and  grace  of  Arnold,  we  have  come  to  know  the  mighty 
impulse  which  has  moved  life  onward  in  its  noblest  aim, 

'The  other  harmony'  of  English  prose  was  developed 
side  by  side  with  that  of  verse,  and  like  it  has  periods  of 
growth.  Beginning  in  the  early  days  of  English  Christianity 
in  codes  of  laws,  it  passes  naturally  into  the  Chronicle  of 
Alfred,  and  the  translations  of  the  Bible,  which  are  specimens 
of  vigorous,  direct,  and  often  beautiful  style  in  a  highly  in- 
flected language.  This  style  reaches  its  culmination  in  the 
tenth  century,  just  before  the  Conquest,  and  is  properly 
styled  by  Professor  Earle  the  Classic  Period,  or  period  of 
full  inflection. 

A  change  was  wrought  by  the  Conquest,  in  that  the  pat- 
tern was  no  longer  the  classic  Latin,  but  the  modern  French. 
While  the  classic  English  was  cultivated  still  in  the  seats  of 
learning,  there  was  being  developed  a  popular  dialect  which 

*  William  Watson. 


MV  INTRODUCTION 

resulted  in  the  formation  of  a  new  style  —  partly  French  and 
yet  typically  English  —  in  Sir  John  Maumkvile's  Voiage  and 
Travaile,  and  John  Wiclifs  tracts.  This  style  culminated 
in  the  Fusion  Letters,  Malory's  Morte  d' Arthur  and  Sidney's 
Arcadia.  During  these  five  centuries  inflections  were  to  a 
great  extent  lost ;  the  vocabulary  was  increased  by  the  addi- 
tion of  words  of  Romance  origin  which  came  through  the 
colloquial  French.  In  the  fifteenth  century,  for  the  first  time, 
English  became  the  language  of  legislative  statutes.  This 
may  be  called  the  second  culmination,  or  the  National  Period, 
when  English  prose  became  essentially  what  it  is  to-day. 

In  the  closing  years  of  the  reign  of  Elizabeth,  years  of 
splendor  at  home  and  triumph  abroad,  England  became  the 
nation  of  a  single  book  —  the  Bible  :  this  is  of  the  greatest 
importance  in  the  history  of  English  prose.  In  the  sixteenth 
century  translation  and  revision  of  the  Scriptures  began 
with  William  Tyndale,  the  father  of  the  English  Bible, 
and  in  1611  scholarly  divines  produced  the  Authorized 
Version — in  a  language  of  Latin  grace  and  English  vigor. 
This  book,  clothed  in  the  language  of  Shakespeare,  and  en- 
throned in  the  home  which  Puritanism  had  created,  became 
the  school  of  every  man  and  woman  of  English  speech.  It 
retained  the  choice  Latinity  of  Hooker,  but  this  was  bal- 
anced by  the  healthful  vernacular.  These  two  elements 
have  remained  in  our  English  prose,  the  one  predominating 
in  Milton,  Johnson,  Burke,  Gibbon  and  De  Quincey;  the 
other  in  Bunyan  and  Defoe.  Perhaps  the  finest  illustra- 
tion of  the  union  of  these  two  elements  is  in  the  prose 
of  Ruskin,  Newman  and  Arnold,  which  is  characterized  by 
distinction,  lucidity,  charm. 

If  we  are  to  add  to  this  matchless  treasure  in  verse  and 
prose,  we  must  first  of  all  learn  how  to  put  it  to  usury  in  those 
activities   which  make   for  individual  and  national  health. 


INTRODUCTION  3CV 

strength  and  beauty.  New  problems  will  arise  and  new 
temptations  will  beset  our  path,  but  they  will  be  met  most 
successfully  by  those  who  know  the  temper  and  spirit  of  our 
matchless  inheritance  in  EngHsh  hterary  art  and  faith  —  its 
power  to  form,  sustain  and  console.  The  spirit  of  noble  en- 
thusiasm in  whatever  man  has  to  do  will  result  in  "  art  by 
the  people,  for  the  people,  a  joy  to  the  maker  and  the  user." 
A  spirit  of  noble  enthusiasm  is  the  revelation  of  great 
literature.  Contact  with  this  spirit  will  create  power  in  us ; 
but  this  contact  must  be  of  soul  with  soul  in  that  myste- 
rious realm  to  which  the  great  artist  conducts  us  by  his 
compelling  charm.  We  must  lay  aside  our  trappings  of 
scientific  method  and  intellectual  analysis  if  we  are  to  move 
with  ease  and  delight  in  this  sphere  of  beauty  and  truth  — 
of  impassioned  quietude.  Professor  Woodrow  Wilson,  in 
speaking  of  the  inability  of  the  bungling  methods  of  the 
schools  to  reach  this  soul  of  art  through  the  "  examination 
of  forms,  grammatical  and  metrical,  which  can  be  quite 
accurately  determined  and  quite  exhaustively  catalogued," 
says :  "  We  must  not  all,  however,  be  impatient  of  this 
truant  child  of  fancy.  When  the  schools  cast  her  out,  she 
will  stand  in  need  of  friendly  succour,  and  we  must  train 
our  spirits  for  the  function.  We  must  be  freehearted  in 
order  to  make  her  happy,  for  she  will  accept  entertainment 
from  no  sober,  prudent  fellow  who  shall  counsel  her  to  mend 
her  ways.  She  has  always  made  light  of  hardship,  and  she 
has  never  loved  or  obeyed  any,  save  those  who  were  of  her 
own  mind,  —  those  who  were  indulgent  to  her  humors, 
responsive  to  her  ways  of  thought,  attentive  to  her  whims, 
content  with  her  '  mere  '  charms.  She  already  has  her  small 
following  of  devotees,  like  all  charming,  capricious  mis- 
tresses. There  are  some  still  who  think  that  to  know  her 
is  better  than  a  liberal  education." 


xvi  INTRODUCTION 

In  setting  forth  the  idea  which  recognizes  the  principle 
of  evolution  in  the  study  of  English  literature  rather  than 
that  which  emphasizes  the  individual  unit,  Mr.  Edmund 
Gosse  says  :  "  We  cling  to  the  individualist  manner,  to  that 
intense  eulogy  which  concentrates  its  rays  on  the  particular 
object  of  notice  and  relegates  all  others  to  proportional 
obscurity.  There  are  critics,  of  considerable  acumen  and 
energy,  who  seem  to  know  no  other  mode  of  nourishing  a 
talent  or  a  taste  than  that  which  is  pursued  by  the  cultivators 
of  gigantic  gooseberries.  They  do  their  best  to  nip  off  all 
other  buds,  that  the  juices  of  the  tree  of  fame  may  be 
concentrated  on  their  favorite  fruit.  Such  a  plan  may  be 
convenient  for  the  purposes  of  malevolence,  and  in  earlier 
times  our  general  ignorance  of  the  principles  of  growth 
might  well  excuse  it.  But  it  is  surely  time  that  we  should 
recognize  only  two  criteria  of  literary  judgment.  The  first 
is  primitive,  and  merely  clears  the  ground  of  rubbish  ;  it  is, 
Does  the  work  before  us,  or  the  author,  perform  what  he 
sets  out  to  perform  with  a  distinguished  skill  in  the  direc- 
tion in  which  his  powers  are  exercised  ?  If  not,  he  interests 
the  higher  criticism  not  at  all ;  but  if  yes,  then  follows  the 
second  test :  Where,  in  the  vast  and  ever-shifting  scheme 
of  literary  evolution,  does  he  take  his  place,  and  in  what 
relation  does  he  stand,  not  to  those  who  are  least  like  him, 
but  to  those  who  are  of  his  own  kith  and  kin?" 


MESSAGES 

"  Books  do  contain  a  progeny  of  life  in  them  to  be  as  active 
as  that  soul  was  whose  progeny  they  are ;  nay,  they  do  preserve 
as  in  a  vial  the  purest  efficacy  and  extraction  of  that  living  intel- 
lect that  bred  them.  ...  As  good  almost  kill  a  man  as  kill  a 
good  book :  who  kills  a  man  kills  a  reasonable  creature,  God's 
image ;  but  he  who  destroys  a  good  book  kills  reason  itself,  kills 
the  image  of  God  as  it  were  in  the  eye.  Many  a  man  lives  a 
burden  to  the  earth  ;  but  a  good  book  is  the  precious  life-blood 
of  a  master  spirit,  embalmed  and  treasured  up  on  purpose  to  a 
lite  beyond  life."  —  Milton. 

"  Literature,  so  far  as  it  is  literature,  is  an '  apocalypse  of  Nature,' 
a  revealing  of  the  '  open  secret.'  It  may  well  enough  be  named, 
in  Fichtie's  style,  '  a  continuous  revelation  of  the  Godlike  in  the 
Terrestrial  and  Common.'  The  Godlike  does  ever,  in  very  truth, 
endure  there ;  is  brought  out,  now  in  this  dialect,  now  in  that, 
with  various  degrees  of  clearness :  All  true  gifted  Singers  and 
Speakers  are,  consciously  or  unconsciously,  doing  so.  .  .  .  All 
true  singing  is  of  the  nature  of  worship ;  as  indeed  all  true 
working  may  be  said  to  be, -^whereof  such  singing  i?,  but  the 
record,  and  fit  melodious  representation  to  us."  —  Carlyle. 

"  In  that  great  social  organ  which,  collectively,  we  call  Litera- 
ture, there  may  be  distinguished  two  separate  offices  that  may 
blend,  and  often  do  so,  but  capable,  severally,  of  a  severe  insu- 
lation, and  naturally  fitted  for  reciprocal  repulsion.  There  is,  first, 
the  literature  of  knowledge,  and,  second,  the  literature  of  power. 
The  function  of  the  first  is  to  teach  ;  the  function  of  the  second 
is  to  move:  the  first  is  a  rudder,  the  second  an  oar  or  sail.  The 
first  speaks  to  the  mere  discursive  understanding ;  the  second 
speaks  ultimately,  it  may  happen,  to  the  higher  understanding  oi 


Xvill  MESSAGES 

reason,  but  always  through  affections  of  pleasure  and  sympathy. 
Remotely  it  may  travel  towards  an  object  seated  in  what  Lord 
Bacon  calls  dry  light ;  but,  proximately,  it  does  and  must  oper- 
ate, else  it  ceases  to  be  a  literature  of  power,  in  and  through  the 
Az/w/V/ light  which  clothes  itself  in  the  mists  and  glittering  iris  of 
human  passions,  desires,  and  genial  emotions."  —  De  Quincey. 

"  While  the  many  use  language  as  they  find  it,  the  man  of 
genius  uses  it  indeed,  but  subjects  it  withal  to  his  own  purposes, 
and  moulds  it  according  to  his  own  peculiarities.  The  throng 
and  succession  of  ideas,  thoughts,  feelings,  imaginations,  aspira- 
tions which  pass  within  him,  ...  his  views  of  external  things, 
his  judgments  upon  life,  manners,  and  history,  the  exercises  of 
his  wit,  of  his  humor,  of  his  depth,  of  his  sagacity,  all  these  in- 
numerable and  incessant  creations,  the  very  pulsation  and  throb- 
bing of  his  intellect  does  he  image  forth,  to  all  does  he  give  utter- 
ance in  a  corresponding  language,  ...  so  that  we  might  as  wc'l 
say  that  one  man's  shadow  is  another's  as  that  the  style  of  a 
really  gifted  mind  can  belong  to  any  but  himself.  It  follows  him 
about  as  his  shadow."  —  Newman. 

"  Do  you  know,  if  you  read  this,  that  you  cannot  read  that  — 
that  what  you  lose  to-day  you  cannot  gain  to-morrow?  Will  you  go 
and  gossip  with  your  housemaid,  or  your  stable  boy,  when  you  may 
talk  with  queens  and  kings ;  or  flatter  yourselves  that  it  is  with 
any  worthy  consciousness  of  your  own  claims  to  respect  that  you 
jostle  with  the  common  crowd  for  etitrte  here,  and  audience 
there,  when  all  the  while  this  eternal  court  is  open  to  you,  with 
its  society  wide  as  the  world,  multitudinous  as  its  days,  the 
chosen  and  the  mighty,  of  every  place  and  time?  Into  that  you 
may  enter  always ;  in  that  you  may  take  fellowship  and  rank 
according  to  your  wish :  from  that,  once  entered  into  it,  you  can 
never  be  outcast  but  by  your  own  fault ;  by  your  aristocracy 
of  companionship  there,  your  own  inherent  aristocracy  will  be 
assuredly  tested."  —  Ruskin. 

"  Culture  does  not  try  to  teach  down  to  the  level  of  inferior 
classes ;  it  does  not  try  to  win  them  for  this  or  that  sect  of  its 


MESSAGES  XIX 

own,  with  ready  made  judgements  and  watchwords.  It  seeks  to 
do  away  with  classes :  to  make  the  best  that  has  been  thought 
and  known  in  the  world  current  everywhere ;  to  make  all  men 
live  in  an  atmosphere  of  sweetness  and  light,  where  they  may 
use  ideas,  as  it  uses  them  itself,  freely,  —  nourished  and  not 
bound  by  them."  —  Matthew  Arnold. 

"  What  is  important,  is  not  that  the  critic  should  possess  a  cor- 
rect abstract  definition  of  beauty  for  the  intellect,  but  a  certain  kind 
of  temperament,  the  power  of  being  deeply  moved  by  the  presence 
of  beautiful  objects.  He  will  remember  always  that  beauty  exists 
in  many  forms.  To  him  all  periods,  types,  schools  of  taste,  are 
in  themselves  equal.  In  all  ages  there  have  been  some  excellent 
workmen,  and  some  excellent  work  done.  The  question  he  asks 
is  always  :  In  whom  did  the  stir,  the  genius,  the  sentiment  of  the 
period  find  itself?  where  was  the  receptacle  of  its  refinement, 
its  elevation,  its  taste  "  ?  —  Walter  Pater. 

"  The  only  knowledge  that  can  really  make  us  better  is  not  of 
things  and  their  laws,  but  of  persons  and  their  thoughts ;  and  I 
would  rather  have  an  hour's  sympathy  with  one  noble  heart 
than  read  the  law  of  gravitation  through  and  through.  To  teach 
us  what  to  love  and  what  to  hate,  whom  to  honour  and  whom  to 
despise,  is  the  substance  of  all  human  training,  and  this  is  not  to 
be  learned  from  the  magnet  or  the  microscope,  from  insects  born 
in  galvanism,  and  light  polarised  in  crystals,  but  only  among  the 
affairs  of  men ;  from  the  rich  records  of  the  past,  the  strife  of 
heroic  and  the  peace  of  saintly  souls,  from  great  thoughts  of 
great  minds,  and  the  sublime  acts  of  indomitable  conscience. 
The  soul  takes  its  complexion  and  its  true  port  from  the  society 
in  which  it  dwells."  —  James  Martineau. 

"  We  owe  to  books  those  general  benefits  which  come  from 
high  intellectual  action.  Thus,  I  think,  we  often  owe  to  them 
the  perception  of  immortality.  They  impart  sympathetic  activity 
to  the  moral  power.  Go  with  mean  people  and  you  will  think 
life  is  mean.  Then  read  Plutarch,  and  the  world  is  a  proud 
place,  peopled  with  men  of  positive  quality,  with  heroes  and  demi- 


XX  MESSAGES 

gods  standing  around  us,  who  will  not  let  us  sleep.  They  ad- 
dress the  imagination:  only  poetry  inspires  poetry  They  be- 
come the  organic  culture  of  the  mind.  ...  Be  sure,  then,  to  read 
no  mean  books.  Shun  the  spawn  of  the  press  on  the  gossip  of 
the  hour.  Do  not  read  what  you  shall  learn,  without  asking,  in 
the  street  and  the  train."  —  Emerson. 

"  The  world  of  the  imagination  is  not  the  world  of  abstraction 
and  nonentity,  as  some  conceive,  but  a  world  formed  out  of  chaos 
by  a  sense  of  the  beauty  that  is  in  man  and  the  earth  on  which  he 
dwells.  It  is  the  realm  of  might  be,  our  haven  of  refuge  from  the 
shortcomings  and  disillusions  of  life.  It  is,  to  quote  Spenser, 
who  knew  it  well  — 

The  world's  sweet  inn  from  care  and  wearisome  turmoil. 

Do  we  believe,  then,  that  God  gave  us  in  mockery  this  splendid 
faculty  of  sympathy  with  things  that  are  a  joy  forever?  For  my 
part,  I  believe  that  the  love  and  study  of  works  of  the  imagina- 
tion is  of  practical  utility  in  a  country-  so  profoundly  material  (or, 
as  we  like  to  call  it.  practical)  in  its  leading  tendencies  as  ours. 
The  hunger  after  purely  intellectual  delights,  the  content  with 
ideal  possessions,  cannot  but  be  good  for  us  in  maintaining  a 
wholesome  balance  of  character  and  of  the  faculties."  —  J.  R. 
Lowell. 

"A  true  Classic,  as  I  should  like  to  hear  it  defined,  is  an  author 
who  has  enriched  the  human  mind,  increased  its  treasure,  and 
caused  it  to  advance  a  step ;  who  has  discovered  some  moral 
and  not  equivocal  truth,  or  revealed  some  eternal  passion  in  that 
heart  where  all  seemed  known  and  discovered ;  who  has  ex- 
pressed his  thought,  observation,  or  invention,  in  no  matter  what 
form,  only  provided  it  be  broad  and  great,  refined  and  acute, 
sane  and  beautiful  in  itself;  who  has  spoken  to  all  in  his  own 
peculiar  style,  a  style  which  is  found  to  be  also  that  of  the  whole 
world,  a  style  new  and  antique,  contemporary  with  all  time."  — 
Sainte-Beuve. 

*•  For  myself,  I  am  inclined  to  think  the  most  useful  help  to 
reading  is  to  know  what  we  should  not  read,  what  we  can  keep 


MESSAGES  xxi 

out  from  that  small  cleared  spot  in  the  overgrown  jungle  of  in- 
formation, the  corner  which  we  can  call  our  ordered  patch  of 
fruit-bearing  knowledge.  .  .  .  The  true  use  of  books  is  of  such 
sacred  value  to  us  that  to  be  simply  entertained  is  to  cease  to  be 
taught,  elevated,  inspired,  by  books.  .  .  .  Every  book  that  we 
take  up  without  a  purpose  is  an  opportunity  lost  of  taking  up  a 
book  with  a  purpose.  ...  To  understand  a  great  national  poet, 
is  to  know  other  types  of  human  civilisation  in  ways  which  a 
library  of  histories  does  not  sufficiently  teach.  The  great  mas- 
terpieces of  the  world  are  thus,  quite  apart  from  the  charm  and 
solace  they  give  us,  the  master  instruments  of  a  solid  education." 
—  Frederick  Harrison. 

"  Our  prime  object  should  be  to  get  into  living  relation  with  a 
man  ;  and  by  his  means,  with  the  good  forces  of  nature  and  human- 
ity which  play  in  and  through  him.  This  aim  condemns  at  once  all 
reading  for  pride  and  vain-glory  as  wholly  astray,  and  all  reading 
for  scholarship  and  specialised  knowledge  as  partial  and  insuffi- 
cient. We  must  read  not  for  these,  but  for  life ;  we  must  read 
to  live.  Only  let  us  bear  in  mind  that  in  order  to  live  our  best 
life  we  do  not  chiefly  need  advice,  direction,  instruction  (though 
these  also  we  may  put  to  use)  :  we  need  above  all  an  access  of 
power  rightly  directed.  Of  all  our  study  the  last  end  and  aim 
should  be  to  ascertain  how  a  great  writer  or  artist  has  served  the 
life  of  man.  ...  If  our  study  does  not  directly  or  indirectly 
enrich  the  life  of  man,  it  is  but  a  drawing  of  vanity  with  cart- 
ropes,  a  weariness  to  the  flesh,  or  at  least  a  busy  idleness."  — 
Edward  Dowden. 

"  The  highest  end  of  the  highest  education  is  not  anything 
which  can  be  directly  taught,  but  is  the  consummation  of  all 
studies.  It  is  the  final  result  of  intellectual  culture  in  the  devel- 
opment of  the  breadth,  serenity,  and  solidity  of  mind,  and  in  the 
attainment  of  that  complete  self-possession  which  finds  expres- 
sion in  character.  To  secure  this  end  one  means  above  all  is 
requisite  which  has  strangely  enough  been  greatly  neglected  in 
our  schemes  of  education  —  namely  the  culture  of  the  faculty  of 
imagination.     The  studies  that  nourish  the  soul,  that  afford  per- 


XXU  MESSAGES 

manent  resources  of  delight  and  recreation,  that  maintain  ideals 
of  conduct  and  develop  those  sympathies  upon  which  the  prog- 
ress and  welfare  of  society  depend  are  the  studies  that  quicken 
and  nourish  the  imagination  and  are  vivified  by  it."  —  Charles 
Eliot  Norton. 

"  Literature  in  its  essence  is  mere  spirit,  and  you  must  experi- 
ence it  rather  than  analyze  it  too  formally.  It  is  the  door  to 
nature  and  to  ourselves.  It  opens  our  hearts  to  receive  the  ex- 
periences of  great  men  and  the  conceptions  of  great  races.  .  .  . 
If  this  free  people  to  which  we  belong  is  to  keep  its  fine  spirit, 
its  perfect  temper  amidst  affairs,  its  high  courage  in  the  face  of 
difficulties,  its  wise  temperateness,  and  wide-eyed  hope,  it  must 
continue  to  drink  deep  and  often  from  the  old  wells  of  English 
undefiled,  quaff  the  keen  tonic  of  its  best  ideals,  keep  its  blood 
warm  with  all  the  great  utterances  of  exalted  purpose  and  pure 
principle  of  which  its  matchless  literature  is  full.  The  great 
spirits  of  the  past  must  command  us  in  the  tasks  of  the  future. 
Mere  literature  will  keep  us  pure  and  keep  us  strong."  —  Wood- 
row  Wilson. 

"  It  is  as  undesirable  as  it  is  impossible  to  try  to  feed  the  minds 
of  children  only  upon  facts  of  observation  or  record.  The  im- 
mense product  of  the  imagination  in  art  and  literature  is  a  con- 
crete fact  with  which  every  educated  human  being  should  be 
made  somewhat  familiar,  such  products  being  a  very  real  part  of 
every  individual's  actual  environment.  .  .  .  Do  we  not  all  know 
many  people  who  seem  to  live  in  a  mental  vacuum  —  to  whom 
we  have  great  difficulty  in  attributing  immortality,  because  they 
apparently  have  so  little  life  except  that  of  the  body?  Fifteen 
minutes  a  day  of  good  reading  would  give  any  one  of  this 
multitude  a  really  human  life.  The  uplifting  of  the  democratic 
masses  depends  upon  the  implanting  at  schools  of  the  taste  for 
good  reading."  —  Charles  W.  Eliot. 

"Literature  rightly  sifted  and  selected  and  rightly  studied  is 
not  the  mere  elegant  trifling  that  it  is  so  often  and  so  erroneously 
supposed  to  be,  but  a  prof)er  instrument  for  a  systematic  training 


MESSAGES  XXlll 

of  the  imagination  and  sympathies,  and  a  genial  and  varied 
moral  sensibility.  .  .  .  The  thing  that  matters  most,  both  for 
happiness  and  for  duty,  is  that  we  should  strive  habitually  to  live 
with  wise  thoughts  and  right  feelings.  Literature  helps  us  more 
than  other  studies  to  this  most  blessed  companionship  of  wise 
thoughts  and  right  feelings."  —  John  Morley. 

"The  quality  which  makes  a  reader  master  of  the  secret  of 
books  is  primarily  of  the  soul,  and  only  secondarily  of  the 
mind ;  and  to  feel  the  deepest  and  sweetest  of  our  literature 
one  must  read  with  the  heart.  A  book  read  with  the  mind 
only  is  skimmed ;  true  reading  involves  the  imagination  and 
the  feelings.  Those  inner  melodies  which  the  heart  of  man 
has  been  singing  to  himself  these  thousands  of  years  are  audi- 
ble above  all  the  tumult  of  the  world  if  one  has  a  place  of  silence, 
an  hour  of  solitude,  and  a  heart  that  has  kept  the  freshness  of 
its  youth."  —  Hamilton  W.  Mabie. 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

PREFACE vii 

INTRODUCTION ix 

MESSAGES xvu 

GEOFFREY  CHAUCER  (1340-1400) 

Prologue  to  the  Canterbury  Tales.     Lines  1-528    ....  i 

SIR  THOMAS   MALORY  (Fl.  1470) 
Morte  d'Arthur  (King  Arthur)  : 

Of  the  Birth  of  King  Arthur  and  how  he  was  chosen  king   .     .  19 

Galahad  and  the  Sword 28 

The  Institution  of  the  Quest 35 

JOHN   LYLY  (1553-1606) 

Alexander  and  Campaspe:  Apelles'  Song 40 

Sappho  and  Phao  :  Sappho's  Song 40 

Midas  :  Pan's  Song 41 

Euphues  and  his  England  :    Euphues  Glasse  for  Europe    .     .  42 

SIR   PHILIP   SIDNEY  (i 554-1 586) 

Arcadia:  Dedication 53 

Strephon  and  Clauis 54 

Pamela  and  Philoclea 58 

An  Apologie  for  Poetrie:    The  Poet 60 

Astrophel  and  Stella 65 

BALLADS  (?) 

Sir  Patrick  Spens 68 

The  Douglas  Tragedy 72 

Waly,  Waly 75 

KiNMONT  Willie 76 

Robin  Hood  rescuing  the  Widow's  Three  Sons 83 

Get  up  and  bar  the  Door,  O 87 

Bessie  Bell  and  Mary  Gray 89 

XXV 


XXVI  CONTENTS 

EDMUND   SPENSER  (1552-1599)  ,agb 

The  Shepheards  Calender:  Januarie 90 

ASTROPHEL 93 

AMORETTI  :   I,  VII,  XII,  XXV,  XXXIV,  LXVII,  LXXV lOI 

RICHARD   HOOKER  (i 554-1600) 

The  Laws  of  Ecclesiastical  Polity  :    The  Law  of  Nations  .  105 

CHRISTOPHER  MARLOWE  (1564- 1593) 

The  Jew  OF  Malta .-■f'^'^' ^ '" 

•'                            lAct  II,  Sc.  I 128 

The  Passionate  Shepherd  to  his  Love 130 

Hero  and  Leander:   Leander's  Triumph 131 

WILLIAM   SHAKESPEARE   (1564-1616) 

c  •  /  ^^'"»  XXIX,  XXX,  XXXIII,  XXXVIII,  lx,   LXVI,  LXXXVII,  I 

"   i.  XCIII,  XCIV,   cm,  CIV,  CVI,  CVII,  CXV'I,   CXLVI,  CXLVIII  J  ^ 

Under  the  greenwood  tree.    As  You  Like  It,  Act  II,  Sc.  V      .     .  141 

Where  the  bee  sucks,  there  suck  I.    Tempest,  Act  V,  Sc.  I      .     .  141 

Come  unto  these  yellow  sands.     Tempest,  Act  I,  Sc.  II  ...     .  141 

Blow,  blow,  thou  winter  wind !    As  You  Like  It,  Act  II,  Sc.  VII   .  142 
Hark,  hark  !  the  lark  at  Heaven's  gate  sings.    Cymbeline,  Act  II, 

Sc.  Ill 142 

THE  BIBLE  (1611) 

Exodus  15:  Mose^  Song  of  Deliverance 143 

2  Samuel  I  :  17-27 :  David's  lament  over  Said  and  Jonathan    .  145 

Psalm  103 146 

Proverbs  8 :    The  Invitation  of  Wisdom 147 

Isaiah  58 :    True  and  False  Religion 149 

Matthew  7  :   The  Sermon  on  the  Mount 151 

I  Corinthians  13:  Love  Beyond  all  Things 153 

Revelation  6:   The  Seven  Seals 154 

Essayes:  FRANCIS  BACON  (1561-1626) 

Of  Truth 156 

Of  Revenge 158 

Of  Studies 160 


CONTENTS  XXVll 

BEN  JONSON   (1573-1637) 

The  Barriers:   Truth 162 

To  Celia 163 

Song:  Still  to  be  neat,  still  to  be  drest 163 

The  Shepherds'  Holiday:   Nymphs'  Song 164 

An  Epitaph  on  Salathiel  Pavy 165 

To  the  Memory  of  my  Beloved  Master  William   Shak- 

speare 166 

To  Heaven 168 

Epitaph  on  the  Countess  of  Pembroke 169 

Discoveries:  Law  of  Use 169 

JOHN   MILTON   (1608-1674) 

At  a  Solemn  Mirsic 173 

Song  on  May  Morning 174 

On  Shakespeare 174 

On  his  having  arrived  at  the  Age  of  Twenty-Three  .    .  175 

L'Allegro - 175 

II  Penseroso 180 

On  His  Blindness 186 

Areopagitica :    Truth l86f 

A  N'ation  in  its  Strength 187 

An  Apology  for  Smecfymnuus:    Early  Impressions.     .     .     .  189 

SAMUEL   BUTLER   (1612-1680) 

HUDIBRAS:  Accomplishments  of  Hudibras 193 

Religion  of  Hudibras 197 

JOHN  BUNYAN   (1628- 1688) 

Pilgrim's  Progress  :   The  Golden  City 199 

JOHN   DRYDEN    (i  631-1700) 

An  Essay  on  Dramatic  Poetry:    Shakespeare  and Jonson     .  209 

Ode  to  the  Memory  of  Mrs.  Anne  Killigrew 212 

Alexander's  Feast 219 

Lines  printed  under  the  Engraved  Portrait  of  Milton  .  223 

DANIEL  DEFOE   (1661-1731) 

Robinson  Crusoe:    The  Ship-wreck 224 

The  Plague  in  London:    Superstitions 229 


xxvlii  CONTENTS 

JONATHAN  SWIFT   (1667-1745)  pack 

The  Battle  of  the  Books  :   The  Beginning  of  Hostilities  .     .  235 

Gulliver's  Travels  :   TAe  Academy  of  Lagado 242 

JOSEPH  ADDISON   (1672-1719) 
The  Spectator: 

No.  112.    Sunday  in  the  Country 246 

No.  159.    The  Vision  of  Mirzah 249 

No.  565.    Contemplation  of  the  Divine  Perfections  255 

ALEXANDER  POPE   (1688-1744) 

Essay  on  Criticism  :    Standards  of  Taste 260 

Essay  on  Man.    {Book  /) 264 

On  the  Picture  of  Lady  Mary  W.  Montagu 271 

JAMES  THOMSON   (i  700-1 748) 

The  Seasons.    Spring  :    The  Coming  of  the  Rain 272 

Summer:    The  Sheep-Washing 273 

Autumn  :  Storm  in  Harvest 275 

Winter  :  A  Snow  Scene 276 

The  Castle  of  Indolence.    {Book  I) 278 

SAMUEL  JOHNSON   (i  709-1 784) 

Preface  to  Shakespeare:   Shakespeare's  Greatness    ....  283 

Letter  to  the  Earl  of  Chesterfield 290 

THOMAS  GRAY   (1716-1771) 

Ode  on  the  Spring 292 

Ode  on  a  Distant  Prospect  of  Eton  College 294 

Elegy  written  in  a  Country  Churchyard 297 

Milton 302 

Journal  in  the  Lakes:   From  Keswick  to  Kendal    ....  302 

WILLIAM  COLLINS  (i 721-1759) 

Ode  to  Liberty 305 

Ode  to  Evening 310 

Ode  on  the  Death  of  Mr.  Thomson 312 


CONTENTS  XXLX 

OLIVER   GOLDSMITH    (i  728-1 774)  pack 

The  Deserted  Village:   Contrasts 314 

Retallvtion  :    Edmund  Burke 318 

David  Garrick 319 

Sir  Joshua  Reynolds 320 

Stanzas  on  Woman 320 

The  Vicar  of  Wakefield  :  A  Country  Parsonage 321 

EDMUND   BURKE    (i 729-1 797) 

Speech  on  American  Taxation  :  Lord  Chatham 325 

Speech  on  Conciliation   with  America  :    Character  of  the 

Americans 328 

WILLIAM   COWPER  (1731-1800) 

The  Task  :    The  Post  —  The  Fireside  in  Winter 336 

Snow 339 

Early  Love  of  the  Country 341 

The  Poet  in  the  Woods 342 

On  Receipt  of  my  Mother's  Picture 343 

EDWARD   GIBBON    (i  737-1 794) 

Decline  and  Fall  of  the  Roman  Empire:    The  Overthrow 

of  Zenobia 347 

WILLIAM  BLAKE  (1757-1827) 

To  the  Evening  Star 358 

Song  :  My  silks  and  fine  array 358 

Song  :  How  sweet  I  roamed  from  field  to  field 359 

SoNG:  Memory,  hither  come 360 

Mad  Song 360 

To  THE  Muses 361 

Song  :  Piping  down  the  valleys  wild 362 

The  Lamb 362 

Night 363 

Ah,  Sunflower 365 

The  Tiger 365 

The  Angel ,    .    •  366 


XXX  CONTENTS 

ROBERT  BURNS  (i 759-1 796)  pack 

Mary  Morison 367 

The  Cotter's  Saturday  Night 368 

I  LOVE  MY  Jean 374 

To  A  Mountain  Daisy 375 

Hark  !   the  Mavis 377 

For  A'  That  and  A'  That 378 

WILLIAM   WORDSWORTH    (1770-1850) 

Lines  written  in  Early  Spring 380 

Prelude  :  Influence  of  Nature 381 

To  A  Skylark 383 

The  Solitary  Reaper 384 

The  Daffodils 385 

Milton 386 

On  the  Departure  of  Sir  Walter  Scott 387 

Ode  on  Intimations  of  Immortality 387 

To  THE  Queen 394 

SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE  (i  772-1 834) 

Time,  Real  and  Imaginary 396 

Frost  at  Midnight 396 

Morning  Hymn  to  Mont  Blanc 399 

Shakespeare:   The  True  Critic 402 

SIR   WALTER   SCOTT   (1771-1832) 

Lay  of  the  Last  Minstrel  :   Song  of  the  Bard 406 

The  Lord  of  the  Isles  :   Lake  Coriskin 407 

The  Talisman  :    The  Christian  Knight  and  the  Saracen  Cava- 
lier      410 

WALTER  SAVAGE  LANDOR   (1775-1864) 

A  Fiesolan  Idyl 418 

Iphigeneia  and  Agamemnon 420 

Children  playing  in  a  Churchyard 422 

To  the  Sister  of  Elia 422 

Robert  Browning ,    ,    .    .  423 


CONTENTS  XXxi 

PAGE 

On  his  Seventy-Fifth  Birthday 424 

I  know  not  whether  I  am  proud 424 

The  chrysolites  and  rubies  Bacchus  brings 424 

Death  stands  above  me,  whispering  low 424 

CHARLES   LAMB  (i 775-1834) 

The  Two  Races  of  Men 425 

A  Dissertation  on  Roast  Pig 432 

WILLIAM   HAZLITT   (i  778-1 830) 

A  Farewell  to  Essay-Writing:  A  Reminiscence 438 

English  Humour 442 

LEIGH   HUNT    (1784-1859) 

To  THE  Grasshopper  and  the  Cricket 445 

On  the  Realities  of  Imagination 445 

THOMAS   DE  QUINCEY   (i  785-1859) 

On  the  Knocking  at  the  Gate  in  Macbeth 454 

The  Three  Ladies  of  Sorrow 460 

LORD   BYRON    (i  788-1824) 

She  walks  in  Beauty 465 

Stanzas  for  Music 466 

Don  Juan:    The  Isles  of  Greece 467 

Childe  Harold's  Pilgrimage:   Ocean 470 

On  this  Day  I  complete  my  Thirty-Sixth  Year    ....  472 

Sonnet  on  Chillon 474 

PERCY   BYSSHE  SHELLEY   (i  792-1822) 

The  Cloud 475 

To  A  Skylark 478 

Ode  to  the  West  Wind 481 

A  Defense  of  Poetry:    What  Poetry  Is 484 

JOHN   KEATS    (1795-1821) 

A  Poet's  Ecstasy:    I  stood  tiptoe  upon  a  little  hill  ....  488 

Sleep  and  Poetry  :  Art  and  Imitation 489 


XXxii  CONTENTS 

PACK 

On  First  Looking  into  Chapman's  Homer 490 

Endymion:  Beauty 491 

Ode  on  a  Grecian  Urn 492 

Addressed  to  Haydon 494 

On  the  Grasshopper  and  Cricket 494 

The  Human  Seasons 495 

To  Leigh  Hunt >  ,v.  495 

Epistle  to  my  Brother  George:  Tlu  Bard  Speaks     .    ^^  496 

THOMAS  CARLYLE   (1795-1881) 

Essay  on  Burns:  A  True  Poet-Soul 490 

Sartor  Resartus:    The  Everlasting  Yea 504 

Dante  :   Giotto's  Portrait 508 

THOMAS  BABINGTON  MACAULAY    (1800-1859) 

Byron:  His  Early  Fame 510 

Warren  Hastings:   Tke  Trial 512 

JOHN  HENRY  CARDINAL  NEWMAN   (1801-1890) 

Idea  of  a  University:  Kno^vledge  in  Relation  to  Culture  .     .  519 

Callista:  a  Tale  of  the  Third  Century:   Callista's  Vision  524 

University  Sermons:   Music  a  Symbol  of  the  Unseen     .     .     .  526 

ALFRED   LORD  TENNYSON   (1809-1892) 

The  Dying  Swan 528 

The  Poet 529 

The  Poet's  Mind 531 

The  Poet's  Song 533 

Sir  Galahad 533 

Ulysses 536 

Songs  fRv>m  "The  Princess" 538 

To  the  Queen 540 

Milton 541 

Crossing  the  Bar 542 

WILLIAM   MAKEPEACE  THACKERAY   (1811-1863) 

Vanity  Fair:  BecJty  Sharp 543 

De  Finibus  :  Another  Finis  Written 548 


CONTENTS  xxxiii 

CHARLES   DICKENS    (1811-1870)  page 

Oliver  Twist:  Sikes  and  his  Dog 554 

A  Christmas  Carol:   Christmas  at  the  Cralchits'    ...'..     559 
The  Uncommercial  Traveller  :   The  Very  Queer  Small  Boy  .    564 


ROBERT   BROWNING    (i8i2-i{ 

Wanting  is  —  What? 567 

My  Star  ' 567 

Pippa  Passes  :  Pippa's  Song 568 

Confessions 568 

Respectability 570 

Home  Thoughts  from  Abroad 571 

Home  Thoughts  from  the  Sea 572 

Prospice 572 

Memorabilia 573 

Death  in  the  Desert:  "  Three  Souls,  One  Man"    ....  574 

GEORGE  ELIOT  (i  819-1880) 

Adam  Bede:  A  Farm  House 575 

Romola:   Savonarola's  Benediction 580 

ARTHUR   HUGH   CLOUGH    (1819-1861) 

The  Stream  of  Life 586 

The  BOTHIE  OF  Tober-na-Vuolich  :    'J  he  Highland  Stream     .  587 

Where  lies  the  Land? 589 

Say  NOT,  THE  Struggle  Nought  Availeth 589 

Qua  Cursum  Ventus 590 

'  With    whom    is    no   Variableness,    neither    Shadow    of 

Turning' 591 

'O  0c6s  fttTol  «roS ! 591 

Songs  in  Absence 593 

A  River  Pool 593 

Come,  Poet,  Come 594 

In  the  Great  Metropolis 595 

JOHN  RUSKIN    (1819-        ) 

Praeterita  :    The  Consecration 597 

Modern  Painters  :  Heal  Happiness 599 


•XXXIV  CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Lectures  on  Art:    The  Function  of  Art 602 

Stones  of  Venice  :  Knowledge  and  Wisdom 605 


MATTHEW   ARNOLD    ( 1 822-1  { 

Empedocles  on  Etna:    Callides'  Song 607 

Dover  Beach 609 

Memorial  Verses 610 

Rugby  Chapel:   Servants  of  God 613 

Shakespeare 613 

Written  in  Emerson's  Essays 614 

East  London 615 

Calais  Sands 615 

The  Study  of  Poetry:  Poetry  a  Criticism  of  Life    .     .     .     .  617 

NOTES 621 

INDEX  OF  AUTHORS  AND  NOTES 663 

BOOKS   OF  GENERAL   REFERENCE    . 664 

CRITICAL  AND   SUGGESTIVE 665 

GLOSSARY 668 


GEOFFREY  CHAUCER 

(1340-1400) 

THE  PROLOGUE  TO  THE  CANTERBURY  TALES 

The  season  of  the  pilgnmage,  and  the  assembling  of 
the  pilgrims  at  the  Tabard  Inn,  described 

Whan  that  Aprille  with  hise  shoures  soote 
The  droghte  of  March  hath  perced  to  the  roote, 

And  bathed  every  veyne  in  swich  ]ic6ur 

Of  which  vertu  engendred  is  the  flour ; 

Whan  Zephirus  eek  with  his  swete  breeth  5 

Inspired  hath  in  every  holt  and  heeth 

The  tendre  croppes,  and  the  yonge  sonne 

Hath  in  the  Ram  his  halfe  cours  y-ronne, 

And  smale  foweles  maken  melodye 

That  slepen  al  the  nyght  with  open  eye,  —  10 

So  priketh  hem  Nature  in  hir  corages,  — 

Thanne  longen  folk  to  goon  on  pilgrimages, 

And  palmeres  for  to  seken  straunge  strondes, 

To  feme  halwes,  kowthe  in  sondry  londes ; 

And  specially,  from  every  shires  ende  15 

Of  Engelond,  to  Caunturbury  they  wende, 

The  hooly  blisful  martir  for  to  seke, 

That  hem  hath  holpen  whan  that  they  were  seeke. 

Bifil  that  in  that  seson  on  a  day, 
In  Southwerk  at  the  Tabard  as  I  lay,  ag 

Redy  to  wenden  on  my  pilgrymage 


FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

To  Caunterbury  with  ful  devout  corage, 

At  nyght  were  come  into  that  hostelrye 

Wei  nyne-and-twenty  in  a  compaignye, 

Of  sondry  folk,  by  ^venture  y-falle  25 

In  felaweshipe,  and  pilgrims  were  they  alle, 

That  toward  Caunterbury  wolden  ryde. 

The  chambres  and  the  stables  weren  wyde, 

And  wel  we  weren  esed  atte  beste. 

And,  shortly,  whan  the  sonne  was  to  reste,  30 

So  hadde  I  spoken  with  hem  everychon, 

That  I  was  of  hir  felaweshipe  anon, 

And  made  forward  erly  for  to  ryse. 

To  take  oure  wey,  ther  as  I  yow  devyse. 

But  nathelees,  whil  I  have  tyme  and  space,  35 

Er  that  I  ferther  in  this  tale  pace. 
Me  thynketh  it  accordaunt  to  resoun 
To  telle  yow  al  the  condicioun 
Of  ech  of  hem,  so  as  it  semed  me. 
And  whiche  they  weren  and  of  what  degree,  40 

And  eek  in  what  array  that  they  were  inne ; 
And  at  a  Knyght  than  wol  I  first  bigynne. 

The  Knight 

A  Knyght  ther  was  and  that  a  worthy  man, 
That  fro  the  tyme  that  he  first  bigan 
To  riden  out,  he  loved  chivalrie,  45 

Trouthe  and  hon6ur,  fredom  and  curteisie. 
Ful  worthy  was  he  in  his  lordes  werre. 
And  therto  hadde  he  riden,  no  man  ferre, 
As  wel  in  cristendom  as  in  hethenesse. 
And  evere  honoured  for  his  worthynesse.  50 

At  Alisaundre  he  was  whan  it  was  wonne ; 


CHAUCER  3 

Ful  ofte  tyme  he  hadde  the  bord  bigonne 

Aboven  alle  nacions  in  Pruce. 

In  Lettow  hadde  he  reysed  and  in  Ruce,  — 

No  cristen  man  so  ofte  of  his  degree.  55 

In  Gernade  at  the  seege  eek  hadde  he  be 

Of  Algezir,  and  riden  in  Behnarye. 

At  Lyeys  was  he,  and  at  Satalye, 

Whan  they  were  wonne ;  and  in  the  Grate  See 

At  many  a  noble  aryve  hadde  he  be.  60 

At  mortal  batailles  hadde  he  been  fiftene, 
And  foughten  for  oure  feith  at  Tramyssene 
In  lystes  thries,  and  ay  slayn  his  foo. 
This  ilke  worthy  knyght  hadde  been  also 
Somtyme  with  the  lord  of  Palatye  65 

Agayn  another  hethen  in  Turkye ; 
And  everemoore  he  hadde  a  sovereyn  prys. 
And  though  that  he  were  worthy,  he  was  wys, 
And  of  his  port  as  meeke  as  is  a  mayde. 
He  nevere  yet  no  vileynye  ne  sayde,  70 

In  al  his  lyf,  unto  no  maner  wight. 
He  was  a  verray  parfit,  gentil  knyght. 

But  for  to  tellen  yow  of  his  array, 
His  hors  weren  goode,  but  he  ne  was  nat  gay ; 
Of  fustian  he  wered  a  gypon  75 

Al  bism6tered  with  his  habergeon, 
For  he  was  late  y-come  from  his  viage, 
And  wente  for  to  doon  his  pilgrymage. 

The  Squire 

With  hym  ther  was  his  sone,  a  yong  Squi6r, 
A  lovyere  and  a  lusty  bacheler,  80 

With  lokkes  crulle  as  they  were  leyd  in  presse. 


FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

Of  twenty  yeer  of  age  he  was,  I  gesse. 

Of  his  stature  he  was  of  evene  lengthe, 

And  wonderly  delyvere  and  greet  of  strengthe ; 

And  he  hadde  been  somtyme  in  chyvachie,  85 

In  Flaundres,  in  Artoys  and  Pycardie, 

And  bom  hym  weel,  as  of  so  Utel  space, 

In  hope  to  stonden  in  his  lady  grace. 

Embrouded  was  he,  as  it  were  a  meede 

Al  ful  of  fresshe  floures  whyte  and  reede;  90 

Syngynge  he  was  or  floytynge,  al  the  day ; 

He  was  as  fressh  as  is  the  monthe  of  May. 

Short  was  his  gowne,  with  sieves  longe  and  wyde ; 

Wei  koude  he  sitte  on  hors  and  faire  ryde ; 

He  koude  songes  make  and  wel  endite,  95 

Juste  and  eek  daunce  and  weel  purtreye  and  write. 

So  hoote  he  lovede  that  by  nyghtertale 

He  sleep  namoore  than  dooth  a  nyghtyngale. 

Curteis  he  was,  lowely  and  servysable. 

And  carf  bifom  his  fader  at  the  table.  100 

The  Yeoman 

A  Yeman  hadde  he  and  servintz  namo 
At  that  tyme,  for  hym  liste  ride  soo ; 
And  he  was  clad  in  cote  and  hood  of  grene. 
A  sheef  of  pocok  arwes  bright  and  kene 
Under  his  belt  he  bar  ful  thriftily  —  105 

Wel  koude  he  dresse  his  takel  yemanly ; 
His  arwes  drouped  noght  with  fetheres  lowe  — 
And  in  his  hand  he  baar  a  myghty  bowe. 
A  not-heed  hadde  he  with  a  broun  visage. 
Of  woodecraft  wel  koude  he  al  the  usage.  no 

Upon  his  arm  he  baar  a  gay  bracer, 


CHAUCER  5 

And  by  his  syde  a  swerd  and  a  bokeler, 

And  on  that  oother  syde  a  gay  daggere 

Harneised  wel  and  sharpe  as  point  of  spere ; 

A  Christophere  on  his  brest  of  silver  sheene ;  115 

An  horn  he  bar,  the  bawdryk  was  of  grene. 

A  forster  was  he,  soothly  as  I  gesse. 

The  Nun 

Ther  was  also  a  Nonne,  a  Prioresse, 
That  of  hir  smylyng  was  ful  symple  and  coy ; 
Hire  gretteste  00th  was  but  by  seint  Loy,  mo 

And  she  was  cleped  madame  Eglentyne. 
Ful  weel  she  soong  the  service  dyvyne, 
Entuned  in  hir  nose  ful  semely, 
And  Frenssh  she  spak  ful  faire  and  fetisly 
After  the  scole  of  Stratford- atte-Bowe,  125 

For  Frenssh  of  Parys  was  to  hire  unknowe. 
At  mete  wel  y-taught  was  she  with-alle, 
She  leet  no  morsel  from  hir  lippes  falle, 
Ne  wette  hir  fyngres  in  hir  sauce  depe. 
Wel  koude  she  carie  a  morsel  and  wel  kepe  130 

Thdt  no  drope  ne  fiUe  upon  hire  breste ; 
In  curteisie  was  set  ful  muchel  hir  leste. 
Hire  over-lippe  wyped  she  so  clene. 
That  in  hir  coppe  ther  was  no  ferthyng  sene 
Of  grece,  whan  she  dronken  hadde  hir  draughte.        ijs 
Ful  semely  after  hir  mete  she  raughte. 
And  sikerly  she  was  of  greet  desport, 
And  ful  plesaunt  and  amyable  of  port, 
And  peyned  hire  to  countrefete  cheere 
Of  Court,  and  been  estathch  of  manere,  140 

And  to  ben  holden  digne  of  reverence. 


FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

But  for  to  speken  of  hire  conscience, 

She  was  so  charitable  and  so  pitous 

She  wolde  wepe  if  that  she  saugh  a  mous 

Kaught  in  a  trappe,  if  it  were  deed  or  bledde.  145 

Of  smale  houndes  hadde  she  that  she  fedde 

With  rosted  flessh,  or  milk  and  wastel  breed  ; 

But  soore  wepte  she  if  oon  of  hem  were  deed, 

Or  if  men  smoot  it  with  a  yerde  smerte, 

And  al  was  conscience  and  tendre  herte.  150 

Ful  semyly  hir  wympul  pynched  was ; 
Hire  nose  tretys,  hir  eyen  greye  as  glas, 
Hir  mouth  ful  smal  and  ther-to  softe  and  reed. 
But  sikerly  she  hadde  a  fair  forheed ; 
It  was  almoost  a  spanhe  brood  I  trowe,  155 

For,  hardily,  she  was  nat  undergrowe. 
Ful  fetys  was  hir  cloke  as  I  was  war ; 
Of  smal  coral  aboute  hir  arm  she  bar 
A  peire  of  bedes  gauded  al  with  grene, 
And  ther-on  heng  a  brooch  of  gold  ful  sheene,  160 

On  which  ther  was  first  write  a  crowned  A, 
And  after  Amor  vincit  omnia. 

Another  Nonne  with  hire  hadde  she 
That  was  hire  Chapeleyne,  and  preestes  thre. 

The  Monk 

A  Monk  ther  was,  a  fair  for  the  maistrie,  165 

An  outridere  that  lovede  venerie, 
A  manly  man,  to  been  an  abbot  able. 
Ful  many  a  deyntee  hors  hadde  he  in  stable, 
And  whan  he  rood  men  myghte  his  brydel  heere 
Gynglen  in  a  whistlynge  wynd  als  cleere,  170 

And  eek  as  loude,  as  dooth  the  chapel  belle. 


CHAUCER  7 

Ther  as  this  lord  was  kepere  of  the  celle, 

The  reule  of  seint  Maure  or  of  seint  Beneit, 

By-cause  that  it  was  old  and  som-del  streit,  — 

This  ilke  Monk  leet  olde  thynges  pace  175 

And  heeld  after  the  newe  world  the  space. 

He  gaf  nat  of  that  text  a  pulled  hen 

That  seith  that  hunters  beth  nat  hooly  men, 

Ne  that  a  Monk  whan  he  is  recchelees 

Is  likned  til  a  fissh  that  is  waterlees ;  180 

This  is  to  seyn,  a  Monk  out  of  his  cloystre. 

But  thilke  text  heeld  he  nat  worth  an  oystre ; 

And  I  seyde  his  opinioun  was  good. 

What  sholde  he  studie  and  make  hym-selven  wood, 

Upon  a  book  in  cloystre  alwey  to  poure,  185 

Or  swynken  with  his  handes  and  lab6ure 

As  Austyn  bit  ?  how  shal  the  world  be  served  ? 

Lat  Austyn  have  his  swynk  to  him  reserved. 

Therfore  he  was  a  prikasour  aright ; 

Grehoundes  he  hadde,  as  swift  as  fowel  in  flight :       190 

Of  prikyng  and  of  hunt)nig  for  the  hare 

Was  al  his  lust,  for  no  cost  wolde  he  spare. 

I  seigh  his  sieves  y-purfiled  at  the  bond 

With  grys,  and  that  the  fyneste  of  a  lond ; 

And  for  to  festne  his  hood  under  his  chyn  195 

He  hadde  of  gold  y-wroght  a  ful  curious  pyn, 

A  love  knotte  in  the  gretter  ende  ther  was. 

His  heed  was  balled  that  shoon  as  any  glas, 

And  eek  his  face  as  it  hadde  been  enoynt. 

He  was  a  lord  ful  fat  and  in  good  poynt ;  200 

Hise  eyen  stepe  and  roUynge  in  his  heed. 

That  stemed  as  a  fomeys  of  a  leed ; 

His  bootes  souple,  his  hors  in  greet  estaat. 

Now  certeinly  he  was  a  fair  prelaat. 


FROM   CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

He  was  nat  pale,  as  a  forpyned  goost :  205 

A  fat  swan  loved  he  best  of  any  roost ; 
His  palfrey  was  as  broun  as  is  a  berye. 

The  Friar 

A  Frere  ther  was,  a  wantowne  and  a  merye, 
A  lymytour,  a  fUl  solempne  man, 

In  alle  the  ordres  foure  is  noon  that  kan  210 

So  muchel  of  daliaunce  and  fair  langage ; 
He  hadde  maad  ful  many  a  manage 
Of  yonge  wommen  at  his  owene  cost : 
Unto  his  ordre  he  was  a  noble  post, 
Ful  wel  biloved  and  famulier  was  he  215 

With  frankeleyns  over  al  in  his  contree ; 
And  eek  with  worthy  wommen  of  the  toun. 
For  he  hadde  power  of  confessioun. 
As  seyde  hym-self,  moore  than  a  curit. 
For  of  his  ordre  he  was  licenciat.  220 

Ful  swetely  herde  he  confessioun, 
And  plesaunt  was  his  absolucioun. 
He  was  an  esy  man  to  geve  penaunce 
Ther  as  he  wiste  to  have  a  good  pitaunce ; 
For  unto  a  poure  ordre  for  to  give  225 

Is  signe  that  a  man  is  wel  y-shryve ; 
For,  if  he  gaf,  he  dorste  make  avaunt 
He  wiste  that  a  man  was  r^pentaunt : 
For  many  a  man  so  harde  is  of  his  herte 
He  may  nat  wepe  al  thogh  hym  soore  smerte,  230 

Therfore  in  stede  of  wepynge  and  preyeres 
Men  moote  geve  silver  to  the  poure  freres. 
His  typet  was  ay  farsed  full  of  knyves 
And  pynnes,  for  to  geven  yonge  wyves ; 


CHA  UCER  9 

And  certeinly  he  hadde  a  murj'e  note ;  235 

Wei  koude  he  synge  and  pleyen  on  a  rote : 

Of  yeddynges  he  baar  outrely  the  pris  ; 

His  nekke  whit  as  the  flour-de-lys, 

Thar- to  he  strong  was  as  a  champioun. 

He  knew  the  tavernes  well  in  al  the  toun  240 

And  everich  hostiler  and  tappestere 

Bet  than  a  lazar  or  a  beggestere ; 

For  unto  swich  a  worthy  man  as  he 

Acorded  nat,  as  by  his  facultee, 

To  have  with  sike  lazars  aqueyntaunce ;  245 

It  is  nat  honeste,  it  may  nat  avaunce 

F6r  to  deelen  with  no  swiche  poraille  ; 

But  al  with  riche  and  selleres  of  vitaille. 

And  over  al,  ther  as  profit  sholde  arise, 

Curteis  he  was  and  lowely  of  servyse,  250 

Ther  nas  no  man  nowher  so  vertuous  — 

He  was  the  beste  beggere  in  his  hous ; 

For  thogh  a  wydwe  hadde  noght  a  sho, 

So  pleasaunt  was  his  /;/  principio, 

Yet  wolde  he  have  a  ferthyng  er  he  wente  :  255 

His  purchas  was  wel  bettre  than  his  rente. 

And  rage  he  koude,  as  it  were  right  a  whelpe. 

In  love  dayes  ther  koude  he  muchel  helpe, 

For  there  he  was  nat  lyk  a  cloysterer 

With  a  thredbare  cope,  as  is  a  povre  scol^r,  260 

But  he  was  lyk  a  maister,  or  a  pope ; 

Of  double  worstede  was  his  semycope. 

That  rounded  as  a  belle  out  of  the  presse. 

Somwhat  he  lipsed  for  his  wantownesse, 

To  make  his  Englissh  sweet  upon  his  tonge,  265 

And  in  his  harpyng,  whan  that  he  hadde  songe, 

Hise  eyen  twynkled  in  his  heed  aryght 


10  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

As  doon  the  sterres  in  the  frosty  nyght. 
This  worthy  lyraytour  was  cleped  Huberd. 

The  Merchant 

A  Marchant  was  ther  with  a  forked  herd,  270 

In  motteleye,  and  hye  on  horse  he  sat ; 
Upon  his  heed  a  Flaundryssh  bevere  hat ; 
His  bootes  clasped  faire  and  fetisly ; 
Hise  resons  he  spak  ful  solempnely, 
Sownynge  ahvay  thencrees  of  his  wynnyng.  275 

He  wolde  the  see  were  kept  for  any  thing 
Bitwixe  Middelburgh  and  Orewelle. 
Wei  koude  he  in  eschaunge  sheeldes  selle. 
This  worthy  man  ful  wel  his  wit  bisette, 
Ther  wiste  no  wight  that  he  was  in  dette,  280 

So  estatly  was  he  of  his  govemaunce 
With  his  bargaynes  and  with  his  chevyssaunce. 
For  sothe  he  was  a  worthy  man  with-alle 
But,  sooth  to  seyn,  I  noot  how  men  hym  calle. 

The  Clerk  {or  Scholar)  of  Oxford 

A  Clerk  ther  was  of  Oxenford  also  285 

That  unto  logyk  hadde  longe  y-go ; 
As  leene  was  his  hors  as  is  a  rake, 
And  he  nas  nat  right  fat,  I  undertake. 
But  looked  holwe  and  ther-to  sobrely ; 
Ful  thredbare  was  his  overeste  courtepy ;  290 

For  he  hadde  geten  hym  yet  no  benefice, 
Ne  was  so  worldly  for  to  have  office ; 
For  hym  was  levere  have  at  his  beddes  heed 
Twenty  book^s  clad  in  blak  or  reed 


CHAUCER  II 

Of  Aristotle  and  his  philosophic,  295 

Than  robes  riche,  or  fithele,  or  gay  sautrie  : 

But  al  be  that  he  was  a  philosophre, 

Yet  hadde  he  but  litel  gold  in  cofre ; 

But  al  that  he  myghte  of  his  freends  hente 

On  bookes  and  his  lernynge  he  it  spente,  300 

And  bisily  gan  for  the  soules  preye 

Of  hem  that  gaf  hym  wher-with  to  scoleye. 

Of  studie  took  he  moost  cure  and  moost  heede, 

Noght  o  word  spak  he  moore  than  was  neede, 

And  that  was  seyd  in  form  and  reverence  305 

And  short  and  quyk  and  ful  of  hy  sentence. 

Sownynge  in  moral  vertu  was  his  speche 

And  gladly  wolde  he  lerne  and  gladly  teche. 

The  Sergeant  at  Law 

A  Sergeant  of  the  Lawe,  war  and  wys, 
That  often  hadde  been  at  the  Parvys,  310 

Ther  was  also,  ful  riche  of  excellence. 
Discreet  he  was  and  of  greet  reverence ; 
He  semed  swich,  hise  wordes  weren  so  wise. 
Justice  he  was  ful  often  in  Assise, 
By  patente  and  by  pleyn  commissioun  :  315 

For  his  science  and  for  his  heigh  renoun. 
Of  fees  and  robes  hadde  he  many  oon  ; 
So  greet  a  purchasour  was  nowher  noon. 
All  was  fee  symple  to  hym  in  effect. 
His  purchasyng  myghte  nat  been  infect.  320 

Nowher  so  bisy  a  man  as  he  ther  nas, 
And  yet  he  semed  bisier  than  he  was. 
In  termes  hadde  he  caas  and  doomes  alle 
That  from  the  tyme  of  kyng  William  were  falle  \ 


12  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

Ther-to  he  koude  endite  and  make  a  thyng,  325 

Ther  koude  no  wight  pynchen  at  his  writyng ; 

And  every  statut  coude  he  pleyn  by  rote. 

He  rood  but  hoomly  in  a  medlee  cote 

Girt  with  a  ceint  of  silk  with  barres  smale  ; 

Of  his  array  telle  I  no  lenger  tale.  330 

The  Franklin 

A  Frankeleyn  was  in  his  compaignye. 
Whit  was  his  berd  as  is  a  dayesye. 
Of  his  complexioun  he  was  sangwyn. 
Wei  loved  he  by  the  morwe  a  sope  in  wyn ; 
To  lyven  in  delit  was  evere  his  wone,  335 

For  he  was  Epicurus  owene  sone, 
That  heeld  opinioun  that  pleyn  delit 
Was  verraily  felicitee  parfit. 
An  housholdere,  and  a  greet,  was  he  ; 
Seint  Julian  was  he  in  his  contree  ;  340 

His  breed,  his  ale,  was  alweys  after  oon ; 
A  bettre  envyned  man  was  nowher  noon. 
Withoute  bake  mete  was  nevere  his  hous. 
Of  fissh  and  flessh,  and  that  so  plentevous, 
It  snewed  in  his  hous  of  mete  and  drynke,  345 

Of  alle  deyntees  that  men  koude  thynke. 
After  the  sondry  sesons  of  the  yeer, 
So  chaunged  he  his  mete  and  his  soper. 
Ful  many  a  fat  partrich  hadde  he  in  muwe 
And  many  a  breem  and  many  a  luce  in  stuwe.  350 

Wo  was  his  cook  but  if  his  sauce  were 
Poynaunt  and  sharpe  and  redy  al  his  geere. 
His  table  dormant  in  his  halle  ahvay, 
Stood  redy  covered  al  the  longe  day. 


CHAUCER  13 

At  sessiouns  ther  was  he  lord  and  sire ;  355 

Ful  ofte  tyme  he  was  knyght  of  the  shire. 

An  anlaas,  and  a  gipser  al  of  silk, 

Heeng  at  his  girdel  whit  as  morne  milk. 

A  shirreve  hadde  he  been  and  a  countour. 

Was  nowher  such  a  worthy  vavasour.  360 

The  Haberdasher,  Etc. 

An  Haberdasshere,  and  a  Carpenter, 
A  Webbe,  a  Dyere,  and  a  Tapycer,  — 
And  they  were  clothed  alle  in  o  lyveree 
Of  a  sol^mpne  and  greet  fraternitee. 
Ful  fressh  and  newe  hir  geere  apiked  was  ;  365 

Hir  knyves  were  chaped  noght  with  bras, 
But  al  with  silver,  wroght  ful  clene  and  weel, 
Hire  girdles  and  hir  pouches  everydeel. 
Wei  semed  ech  of  hem  a  fair  burgeys 
To  sitten  in  a  geldehalle,  on  a  deys,  370 

fiverich  for  the  wisdom  that  he  kan 
Was  shaply  for  to  been  an  alderman. 
For  catel  hadde  they  ynogh  and  rente, 
And  eek  hir  wyves  wolde  it  wel  assente  ; 
And  elles  certeyn  were  they  to  blame.  375 

It  is  ful  fair  to  been  y-cleped  Madame, 
And  goon  to  vigilies  al  bifore. 
And  have  a  mantel  roialliche  y-bore. 

The  Cook 

A  Cook  they  hadde  with  hem  for  the  nones. 
To  boille  the  chiknes  with  the  marybones  380 

And  poudre-marchant  tart  and  galyngale  ; 


14  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

Wei  koude  he  knowe  a  draughte  of  Londoun  ale ; 

He  koude  rooste  and  sethe  and  boille  and  frye, 

Mdken  mortreux  and  well  bake  a  pye. 

But  greet  harm  was  it,  as  it  thoughte  me,  385 

That  on  his  shyne  a  mormal  hadde  he 

For  blankmanger,  that  made  he  with  the  beste. 

The  Shipman 

A  Shipman  was  ther,  wonynge  fer  by  weste ; 
For  aught  I  woot  he  was  of  Dertemouthe. 
He  rood  upon  a  rouncy  as  he  kouthe,  390 

in  a  gowne  of  faldyng  to  the  knee. 
A  daggere  hangynge  on  a  laas  hadde  he 
Aboute  his  nekke  under  his  arm  adoun. 
The  hoote  somer  hadde  maad  his  hevve  al  broun, 
And  certeinly  he  was  a  good  felawe.  395 

Ful  many  a  draughte  of  wyn  he  hadde  drawe 
Fro  Burdeuxward  whil  that  the  Chapman  sleep. 
Of  nyce  conscience  took  he  no  keep. 
If  that  he  faught,  and  hadde  the  hyer  hond. 
By  water  he  sente  him  hoom  to  every  lond.  400 

But  of  his  craft  to  rekene  wel  his  tydes, 
His  stremes  and  his  daungers  him  bisides. 
His  herberwe  and  his  moone,  his  lodemenage, 
Ther  nas  noon  swich  from  HuUe  to  Cartage. 
-Hardy  he  was,  and  wys  to  undertake  :  ,      405 

I  With  many  a  tempest  hadde  his  berd  been  shakej 
He  knew  wel  alle  the  havenes,  as  they  were, 
From  Gootlond  to  the  Cape  of  Fynystere, 
And  every  cryke  in  Britaigne  and  in  Spayne. 
His  barge  y-cleped  was  the  Maudelayne.  410 


CHAUCER  1$ 

f'he  Physician 

With  us  ther  was  a  Doctour  of  Phisik  ; 
In  all  this  world  ne  was  ther  noon  hym  lik, 
To  speke  of  phisik  and  of  surgerye  ; 
For  he  was  grounded  in  astronomye. 
He  kepte  his  pacient  a  ful  greet  deel  4x5 

In  houres  by  his  magyk  natureel. 
Wei  koude  he  fortunen  the  ascendent 
Of  hise  ymages  for  his  pacient. 
He  knew  the  cause  of  everich  maladye, 
Were  it  of  hoot,  or  cold,  or  moyste,  or  drye,  420 

And  where  they  engendred  and  of  what  humour ; 
He  was  a  verray  parfit  praktisour. 
The  cause  y-knowe  and  of  his  harm  the  roote, 
Anon  he  gaf  the  sike  man  his  boote. 
Ful  redy  hadde  he  hise  apothecaries  425 

To  sende  him  drogges  and  his  letuaries, 
For  ech  of  hem  made  oother  for  to  wynne, 
Hir  frendshipe  nas  nat  newe  to  bigynne. 
Wei  knew  he  the  olde  Esculapius 
And  Deyscorides,  and'eek  Rufus,  430 

Olde  Ypocras,  Haly  and  Galyen, 
Serapion,  Razis  and  Avycen, 
Averrois,  Damascien  and  Constantyn, 
Bernard  and  Gatesden  and  Gilbertyn. 
Of  his  diete  mesurable  was  he,  435 

For  it  was  of  no  superfiuitee, 
But  of  greet  norissyng  and  digestible. 
His  studie  was  but  litel  on  the  Bible. 
In  sangwyn  and  in  pers  he  clad  was  al, 
Lyned  with  taffata  and  with  sendal.  440 

And  yet  he  was  but  esy  of  dispence ; 


1 6  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

He  kepte  that  he  wan  in  pestilence. 
For  gold  in  phisik  is  a  cordial, 
Therfore  he  lovede  gold  in  special. 

The  Wife  of  Bath 

A  GOOD  wiF  was  ther  of  biside  Bathe,  445 

But  she  was  som-del  deef  and  that  was  scathe. 
Of  clooth-makyng  she  hadde  swich  an  haunt 
She  passed  hem  of  Ypres  and  of  Gaunt. 
In  al  the  parisshe  wif  ne  was  ther  noon 
That  to  the  offrynge  bifore  hire  sholde  goon ;  450 

And  if  ther  dide,  certeyn  so  wrooth  was  she, 
That  she  was  out  of  alle  charitee. 
Hir  coverchiefs  ful  fyne  weren  of  ground,  — 
I  dorste  swere  they  weyeden  ten  pound,  — 
That  on  a  Sonday  weren  upon  hir  heed.  455 

Hir  hosen  weren  of  fyn  scarlet  reed 
Ful  streite  y-teyd,  and  shoes  ful  moyste  and  newe. 
Boold  was  hir  face  and  fair  and  reed  of  hewe. 
She  was  a  worthy  womman  al  hir  lyve, 
Housbondes  at  chirche  dore  she  hadde  fyve,  460 

Withouten  oother  compaignye  in  youthe,  — 
But  ther-of  nedeth  nat  to  speke  as  nowthe,  — 
And  thries  hadde  she  been  at  Jerusalem  ; 
She  hadde  passed  many  a  straunge  strem  ; 
At  Rome  she  hadde  been  and  at  Boloigne,  465 

In  Galice  at  Seint  Jame,  and  at  Coloigne. 
She  koude  muchel  of  wandrynge  by  the  weye. 
Gat-tothed  was  she,  soothly  for  to  seye. 
Upon  an  amblere  esily  she  sat, 

Y-wympled  wel,  and  on  hir  heed  an  hat  470 

As  brood  as  is  a  bokeler  or  a  targe ; 


CHAUCER  ly 

A  foot  mantel  aboiite  hir  hipes  large, 

And  on  hire  feet  a  paire  of  spores  sharpe. 

In  felaweshipe  wel  koude  she  laughe  and  carpe. 

Of  remedies  of  love  she  knew  per  chaunce,  475 

For  she  koude  of  that  art  the  olde  daunce. 


7%<f  Parish  Priest 

A  good  man  was  ther  of  religioun 
And  was  a  Poure  Persoun  of  a  Toun  ; 
But  riche  he  was  of  hooly  thoght  and  werk ; 
He  was  also  a  lerned  man,  a  clerk,  480 

That  Cristes  Gospel  trewely  wolde  preche  : 
Hise  parisshens  devoutly  wolde  he  teche. 
Benygne  he  was  and  wonder  diligent, 
And  in  adversitee  ful  pacient ; 

And  swich  he  was  y-preved  ofte  sithes.  485 

Ful  looth  were  hym  to  cursen  for  hise  tithes. 
But  rather  wolde  he  geven,  out  of  doute, 
Unto  his  poure  parisshens  aboute, 
Of  his  oifryng  and  eek  of  his  substaunce  : 
He  koude  in  litel  thyng  have  suffisaunce.  490 

Wyd  was  his  parisshe,  and  houses  fer  asonder, 
But  he  ne  lafte  nat  for  reyn  ne  thonder, 
In  siknesse  nor  in  meschief  to  vislte 
The  ferreste  in  his  parisshe,  muche  and  lite, 
Upon  his  feet,  and  in  his  hand  a  staf.  495 

This  noble  ensample  to  his  sheep  he  gaf 
That  firste  he  wroghte  and  afterward  he  taughte. 
Out  of  the  gospel  he  tho  wordes  caughte. 
And  this  figure  he  added  eek  therto. 
That  if  gold  ruste  what  shal  iren  doo  ?  500 

For  if  a  preest  be  foul,  on  whom  we  truste. 


l8  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

No  wonder  is  a  lewed  man  to  ruste  ; 

And  shame  it  is,  if  a  preest  take  keepe, 

A  [dirty]  shepherde  and  a  clene  sheepe. 

Wei  oghte  a  preest  ensample  for  to  geve  505 

By  his  clennesse  how  that  his  sheep  sholde  lyve. 

He  sette  nat  his  benefice  to  hyre 

And  leet  his  sheep  encombred  in  the  myre, 

And  ran  to  Londoun  unto  Seint  Poules 

To  seken  hym  a  chaunterie  for  soules,  510 

Or  with  a  bretherhed  to  been  withholde ; 

But  dwelte  at  hoom  and  kepte  wel  his  folde, 

So  that  the  wolf  ne  made  it  nat  myscarie,  — 

He  was  a  shepherde,  and  noght  a  mercenarie ; 

And  though  he  hooly  were  and  vertuous,  515 

He  was  to  synful  man  nat  despitous, 

Ne  of  his  speche  daungerous  ne  digne, 

But  in  his  techyng  discreet  and  benygne. 

To  drawen  folk  to  hevene  by  faimesse, 

By  good  ensample,  this  was  his  bisynesse  :  520 

But  it  were  any  persone  obstinat. 

What  so  he  were,  of  heigh  or  lough  estat, 

Hym  wolde  he  snybben  sharply  for  the  nonys. 

A  bettre  preest  I  trowe  that  nowher  noon  ys. 

He  waited  after  no  pompe  and  reverence,  525 

Ne  maked  him  a  spiced  conscience. 

But  Cristes  loore,  and  his  Apostles  twelve, 

He  taughte,  but  first  he  folwed  it  hym  selve. 


SIR   THOMAS    MALORY 

KING  ARTHUR 


cf 


Of  the  birth  of  King  Arthur,  and  how  he  was 
chosen  king 

It  befell  in  the  days/of  Uther  Pendr^gon,  when  he  was 
king  of  all  England,  and  so  reigned,  that  there  was  a 
mighty  duke  in  Cornwall  that  held  war  against  him  long 
time.  And  the  duke  was  named  the  duke  of  Tintagil. 
And  so  by  means  king  Uther  sent  for  this  duke,  charging  5 
him  to  bring  his  wife  with  him,  for  she  was  called  a  fair 
lady,  and  a  passing  wise,  and  her  name  was  called  Igraine. 
And  the  messengers  had  their  answers,  and  that  was  this, 
shortly,  that  neither  he  nor  his  wife  would  not  come 
at  him.  Then  was  the  king  wonderly  wroth.  And  then  10 
the  king  sent  him  plain  word  again,  and  bade  him  be 
ready  and  stuff  him  and  garnish  him,  for  within  forty 
days  he  would  fetch  him  out  of  the  biggest  castle  that  he 
hath.  When  the  duke  had  this  warning,  anon  he  went 
and  furnished  and  garnished  two  strong  castles  of  his,  of  15 
the  which  the  one  hight  Tintagil  and  the  other  castle 
hight  Terrabil.  So  his  wife,  dame  Igraine,  he  put  in  the 
castle  of  Tintagil,  and  himself  he  put  in  the  casde  of 
Terrabil,  the  which  had  many  issues  and  posterns  out. 
Then  in  all  haste  came  Uther  with  a  great  host,  and  laid  20 
a  siege  about  the  castle  of  Terrabil.     And  there  he  pight 

19 


20  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

many  pavilions,  and  there  was  great  war  made  on  both 
parties,  and  much  people  slain. 

But  the  duke  of  Tintagil  espied  how  the  king  rode  from 
the  siege  of  Terrabil,  and  therefore  that  night  he  issued  25 
out  of  the  castle  at  a  postern,  for /tQ' have  distressed  the 
king's  host.     And.  so,  through  his  own  issue,  the  duke 
himself  was  slain  or  eVCT  the  king  caip^  at  the  castle  of 
Tintagil.     Then  all  the  barons  by  one  assent  prayed  the 
king  of  accord  between  the  ladj/  Egfaijje  and  him.     The  30 
king   gave  them  leave,  for  fa'itf '  would  he--  have  been 
accorded  with  her.     So  the   king   put  all  the  trust  in 
Ulfius  to  entreat  between  them ;  so,  by  the  entreat,  at 
the  last  the  king  and  she  met  together.     Now  will  we  do 
well,  said  Ulfius  :  our  king  is  a  lusty  knight  and  wifeless,  35 
and  my  lady  Igraine  is  a  passing  fair  lady ;  it  were  great 
joy  unto  us  all  and  it  might  please  the  king  to  make  her 
his  queen.     Unto  that  they  were  all  well  accorded,  and 
moved  it  to  the  king :  and  anon,  like  a  lusty  knight,  he 
assented  thereto  with  good  will,  and  so  in  all  haste  they  40 
were  married  ir^  morning  with  great  mirth  and  joy. 

Then  the  time  came  that  the  queen  Igraine  should  bear 
a  child.     Then  came  Merlin  unto  the  king  and  said,  Sir, 
ye  must  purvey  you  for  the  nourishing  of  your  child.     As/ 
thou  wilt,  said  the  king,  be  it.     Well,  said  Merlin,  I  know  45 
a  lord  of  yours  in  this  land,  that  is  a  passing  true  man 
and  a  faithful,  and  he  shall  have  the  nourishing  of  your 
child,  and  his  name  is  Sir  Ector,  and  he  is  a  lord  of  fair 
livelihood  in  many  parts  in  England  and  Wales.     And 
this  lord.  Sir  Ector,  let  him  be  sent  for,  for  to  come  and  50 
speak  with  you  ;  and  desire  him  yourself,  as  he  loveth 
you,   that  he  will   put  his  own  child   to  nourishing  to 
another  woman,  and  that  his  wife  nourish  yours.     And 
when  the  child  is  born  let  it  be  delivered  unto  me  at 


MALORY  21 

yonder  privy  postern  unchristened.     So  like  as  Merlin  SS 
devised  it  was  done.     And  when  Sir  Ector  was  come  he 
made  affiance  to  the  king  for  to  nourish  the  child  like 
as  the  king  desired ;  and  there  the  king  granted  Sir  Ector 
great  rewards.     Then  when  the  lady  was  delivered,  the 
king  commanded  two  knights  and  two  ladies  to  take  the  60 
child  bound  in  a  cloth  of  gold,  and  that  ye  deliver  him 
to  what  poor  man  ye  meet  at  the  postern  gate  of  the 
castle.     So  the  child  was  delivered  unto  Merlin,  and  so 
he  bare  it  forth  unto  Sir  Ector,  and  made  an  holy  man 
to  christen  him,  and  named  him  Arthur  :    and  so  Sir  65 
Ector's  wife  nourished  him  \vith  her  own  breast. 

Then  within  two  years  king  Uther  fell  sick  of  a  great 
malady.  And  in  the  meanwhile  his  enemies  usurped  upon 
him,  and  did  a  great  battle  upon  his  men,  and  slew  many 
of  his  people.  Sir,  said  Merlin,  ye  may  not  lie  so  as  ye  70 
do,  for  ye  must  to  the  field,  though  ye  ride  on  an  horse- 
litter  ;  for  ye  shall  never  have  the  better  of  your  enemies 
but  if  your  person  be  there,  and  then  shall  ye  have  the 
victory.  So  it  was  done  as  Merlin  had  devised,  and  they 
carried  the  king  forth  in  a  horse-litter  with  a  great  host  75 
towards  his  enemies.  And  at  St.  Albans  there  met  with 
the  Icing  a  great  host  of  the  North.  And  that  day  Sir 
Ulfius  and  Sir  Brastias  did  great  deeds  of  arms,  and  king 
Uther's  men  overcame  the  Northern  battle,  and  slew  many 
people,  and  put  the  remnant  to  flight.  And  then  the  80 
king  returned  unto  London,  and  made  great  joy  of  his 
victory.  And  then  he  fell  passing  sore  sick,  so  that  three 
days  and  three  nights  he  was  speechless ;  wherefore  all 
the  barons  made  great  sorrow,  and  asked  Merlin  what 
counsel  were  best.  There  is  none  other  remedy,  said  85 
Merlin,  but  God  will  have  his  will.  But  look  ye  all  barons 
be  before  king  Uther  to-morn,  and  God  and  I  shall  make 


22  FHOAf  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

him  to  speak.    So  on  the  morn  all  the  barons  with  Merlin 
came  tofore  the  king :  then  Merlin  said  aloud  unto  king 
Uther,  Sir,  shall  your  son  Arthur  be  king  after  your  days,  90 
of  this  realm,  with  all  the  appurtenance?     Then  Uther 
Pendragon  turned  him  and  said  in  hearing  of  them  all, 
I  give  him  God's  blessing  and  mine,  and  bid  him  pray 
for  my  soul,  and  righteously  and  worshipfully  that  he 
claim  the  crown  upon  forfeiture  of  my  blessing.     And  95 
therewith  he  yielded  up  the  ghost.     And  then  was  he 
interred  as  longed  to  a  king.     Wherefore  the  queen,  fair 
Igraine,  made  great  sorrow  and  all  the  barons.     Then 
stood  the  realm  in  great  jeopardy  long  while,  for  every 
lord  that  was  mighty  of  men  made  him  strong,  and  many  100 
wend  to  have  been  king. 

Then  Merlin  went  to  the  archbishop  of  Canterbury,  and 
counselled  him  ^r  to  send  for  all  the  lords  of  the  realm, 
and  all  the  gentlemen  of  arms,  that  they  should  to  London 
come  by  Christmas  upon  pain  of  cursing :  and  for  this  105 
cause  —  that  Jesus,  that  was  born  on  that  night,  that  He 
would  of  his  great  mercy  shew  some  miracle,  as  He  was 
come  to  be  king  of  mankind,  for  (to  shew  some  miracle 
who  should  be  rightwise  king  of  this  realm.  So  the 
archbishop  by  the  advice  of  Merlin  sent  for  all  the  "o 
lords  and  gentlemen  of  arms,  that  they  should  come  by 
Christmas  even  unto  London.  And  many  of  them  made 
them  clean  of  their  life,  that  their  prayer  might  be  the 
more  acceptable  unto  God. 

So  in  the  greatest  church  of  London  (whether  it  were  115 

Paul's  or  not,  the  French  book  maketh  no  mention)  all 

the  estates  were  long  or  day  in  the  church  for  to  pray. 

•  And  when  matins  and  the  first  mass  was  done,  there 

,  ^^as  seen  in  the  churchyard  against  the  high  altar  a  great 

f*yu-       stone  four  square,  like  unto  a  marble  stone,  and  in  the  i2j 

^  1  /^  *?  (A    " 


^  MALORY  23 

midst  thereof  was  like  an  anvil  of  steel  a  foot  on  high, 
and  therein  stack  a  fair  sword  naked  by  the  point,  and 
letters  there  were  written  in  gold  about  the  sword  that 
said  thus  :  Whoso  pulleth  out  this  sword  of  this  stone  and 
anvil  is  rightwise  king  born  of  all  England.  Then  the  125 
people  marvelisd,  and  told  it  to  the  archbishop.  I  com- 
mand, said  the  archbishop,  that  ye  keep  you  within  your 
church,  and  pray  unto  God  still ;  that  no  man  touch 
the  sword  till  the  high  mass  be  all  done.  So  when  all 
masses  were  done  all  the  lords  went  to  behold  the  stone  130 
and  the  sword.  And  when  they  saw  the  scripture,  some 
assayed  —  such  as  would  have  been  king.  But  none 
might  stir  the  sword  nor  move  it.  He  is  not  here,  said 
the  archbishop,  that  shall  achieve  the  sword,  but  doubt  not 
God  will  make  him  known.  But  this  is  my  counsel,  said  135 
the  archbishop,  that  we  let  purvey  ten  knights,  men  of 
good  fame,  and  they  to  keep  this  sword.  So  it  was 
ordained,  and  then  there  was  made  a  cry,  that  every  man 
should  assay  that  would,  for  to  win  the  sword.  And  upon 
New  Year's  Day  the  barons  let  make  a  justs  and  a  tourna- 140 
ment,  that  all  knights  that  would  just  or  tourney  there 
might  play  :  and  all  this  was  ordained  for  to  keep  the 
lords  together  and  the  commons,  for  the  archbishop 
trusted  that  God  would  make  him  known  that  should 
win  the  sword.  145 

So  upon  New  Year's  Day  when  the  service  was  done 
the  barons  rode  to  the  field,  some  to  just,  and  some  to 
tourney  ;  and  so  it  happed  that  Sir  Ector,  that  had  great 
livelihood  about  London,  rode  unto  the  justs,  and  with 
him  rode  Sir  Kay  his  son  and  young  Arthur  that  was  150 
his  nourished  brother,  and  Sir  Kay  was  made  knight  at 
Allhallowmas  afore.  So  as  they  rode  to  the  justs-ward 
Sir   Kay  had  lost  his  sword,  for  he   had  left  it  at  his 


24  OBOM  aUUCat  to  JOtXOLO 

fiiket\  lodlBivS,  aad  SD  ke  pn^cd  foi^g  Anlnr  to  nde 
far  lis  swoid.  I  «9  wdj^  shU  Aidm;  and  lode  6sIys5 
aAordKsrad:  and  ^rlw^  Ik  caoMC  fwrw^  Mk  bdhr  and 
al «ac oritlo  see  Ac  JKanS.  Hkb ««s  AUdmr  vrodi» 
and  snd  Id  MhscI^  I  w9  lide  lo  die  clwuJifonl  and 
lake  the  smnd  wilk  He  that  sticfceOi  mike  stone;,  far 
vy  tamlKr  Sr  Cqf  sUI  aot  be  vitkoot  a  swoid  tUsaGo 
day, 

Sd  lakoa  ke  cave  lo  Ac  cinreii^Md  Sk  Aitkar  aQ^Med, 
aad  tied  ks  kocse  to  tke  atik;,  aoad  so  be  wcnl;  to  tke 

tkere;,  far  dieyifrre  at  tke 
tke  svoid  faf  tke  bandle%  and  ass 
l^;yfl|  and  keicei^pditd  it  om  off  tke  Stance  and  toot  his 
korseaMliQdekBwaf  t9  kecanelo  ks  taratkcrSk  K17, 
and  defivend  kini  tke  sMnd.    And  as  soon  as  Sv  Ka^ 
Ike  smnd  ke  visft  wd  it  «as  tke  snoid  off  tke  stone, 
sokeiodetokiBfiiker  Skfidoi^aad  said:  SD;k>i7o 
is  tke  snonl  off  tke  stone;  wkucfarc  I—si  be  \Saa% 
offtkBfand.  *%kenSr  Ector  bckeld  tke  swonl  ke  ve- 
to tke  cknrek,  and  tkere  diey 
ntnno  tke  cknrek,  and  anon  he 
Sr  Ea^to  sncar  apon  a  book  kov  ke  cane  to  tkat  ITS 
S^,  said  Sk^  Eay,  by  mf  bnitker  AxAm,  far  he 
UtoMe.    Hovgat  ye  tkBSMsd?  said  Sk  Ector 
loiilkM     SrlnOitdyon:  vkenlcaaekanefcrny 
,  I  fannd  nobody  aft  bone  to  deliver  mc  bis 
so  I  tfaMBJkl  mf  bralker  Sk  Kaf  dnnid  not  be  aso 
so  I  caoae  knker  ca^geriy  and  polkd  it  oitt 
off  tke  stone  vnlkoni  "!F  F'''^  /  Fbnnd  ye  vtf  linighl's 
aboiC  this  soond?  said  Sk  Ertor.     Na^,  said  Artbnr. 
"Sam,  said  Sr  Ector  to  Aithnm;  I  wmkn^jnil  ye  nnst  be 
off  this  land.*  Whacfare  I,  said  Aithm;  and  fari»s 
:?    Sk^sad  Ecto^far  God  win  kave  k  so: 


MALORY  25 

for  there  should  never  man  have  drawn  out  this  sword  but 
,  he  that  shall  be  rightwise  king  of  this  land.  Now  let  me 
see  whether  ye  can  put  the  sword  there  as  it  was,  and 
pull  it  out  again.  That  is  no  mastery,  said  Arthur  :  and  190 
so  he  put  it  into  the  stone.  Therewith  Sir  Ector  assayed 
to  pull  out  the  sword  and  failed. 

Now  assay,  said  Sir  Ector  to  Sir  Kay.  And  anon  he 
pulled  at  the  sword  with  all  his  might,  but  it  would  not  be. 
Now  shall  ye  assay,  said  Sir  Ector  to  Arthur.  I  will  well,  19s 
said  Arthur,  and  pulled  it  out  easily.  And  therewithal 
Sir  Ector  kneeled  down  to  the  earth,  and  Sir  Kay.  Alas, 
said  Arthur,  mine  own  dear  father  and  brother,  why  kneel 
ye  to  me.  Nay,  nay,  my  lord  Arthur,  it  is  not  so  :  I  was 
never  your  father  nor  of  your  blood,  but  I  wote  well  ye  are  200 
of  an  higher  blood  than  I  wend  ye  were.  And  then  Sir 
Ector  told  him  all,  how  he  was  betaken  him  for  to  nourish 
him,  and  by  whose  commandment,  and  by  MerHn's  deliv- 
erance. Then  Arthur  made  great  dole  when  he  under- 
stood that  Sir  Ector  was  not  his  father.  Sir,  said  Ector  205 
unto  Arthur,  will  ye  be  my  good  and  gracious  lord  when 
ye  are  king  ?  Else  were  I  to  blame,  said  Arthur,  for  ye 
are  the  man  in  the  world  that  I  am  most  beholding  to,  and 
my  good  lady  and  mother  your  wife,  that  as  well  as  her 
own  hath  fostered  me  and  kept.  And  if  ever  it  be  God's  210 
will  that  I  be  king,  as  ye  say,  ye  shall  desire  of  me  what 
I  may  do,  and  I  shall  not  fail  you  :  God  forbid  I  should 
fail  you.  Sir,  said  Sir  Ector,  I  will  ask  no  more  of  you 
but  that  you  will  make  my  son,  your  foster-brother  Sir 
Kay,  seneschal  of  all  your  lands.  That  shall  be  done,  215 
said  Arthur,  and  more  by  the  faith  of  my  body,  that 
never  man  shall  have  that  office  but  he,  while  he  and  I 
live.  Therewithal  they  went  unto  the  archbishop,  and 
told  him  how  the  sword  was  achieved,  and  by  whom. 


26  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

And  on  Twelfth  Day  all  the  barons  came  thither,  and  220 
to  assay  to  take  the  sword  who  that  would  assay.     But 
there  afore  them  all  there  might  none  take  it  out  but 
Arthur,  wherefore  there  were  many  lords  wroth,  and  said 
it  was  great  shame  unto  them  all  and  the  realm,  to  be 
over  governed  with  a  boy  of  no  high  blood  born.     And  225 
so  they  fell  out  at  that  time  that  it  was  put  off  till  Candle- 
mas, and  then  all  the  barons  should  meet  there  again. 
But  always  the  ten  knights  were  ordained  to  watch  the 
sword  day  and  night,  and  so  they  set  a  pavilion  over  the 
stone  and  the  sword,  and  five  always  watched.     So  at  230 
Candlemas  many  more  great  lords  came  hither  for  to 
have  won  the  sword,  but  there  might  none  prevail.     And 
right  as  Arthur  did  at  Christmas  he  did  at  Candlemas, 
and  pulled  out  the  sword  easily,  whereof  the  barons  were 
sore  aggrieved,  and  put  it  off  in  delay  till  the  high  feast  235 
of  Easter.     And   as  Arthur   sped   afore,  so   did  he  at 
Easter :    yet  there  were  some  of  the   great  lords  had 
indignation  that  Arthur  should  be  their  king,  and  put  it 
oflF  in  a  delay  till  the  feast  of  Pentecost.     Then  the  arch- 
bishop of  Canterbury  by  Merlin's  providence  let  purvey  240 
them  of  the  best  knights  that  they  might  get,  and  such 
knights  as  king  Uther  Pendragon  loved  best  and  most 
trusted  in  his  days,  and  such  knights  were  put  about 
Arthur,  as  Sir  Baud  win  of  Britain,  Sir  Kay,  Sir  Ulfius,  Sir 
Brastias.     All  these,  with  many  other,  were  always  about  245 
Arthur,  day  and  night,  till  the  feast  of  Pentecost. 

And  at  the  feast  of  Pentecost  all  manner  of  men  assayed 
to  pull  at  the  sword  that  would  assay,  but  none  might 
prevail  but  Arthur;  and  he  pulled  it  out  afore  all  the 
lords  and  commons  that  were  there,  wherefore  all  the  250 
commons  cried  at  once.  We  will  have  Arthur  unto  our 
king ;  we  will  put  him  no  more  in  delay,  for  we  all  see 


MALORY  27 

that  it  is  God's  will  that  he  shall  be  our  king,  and  who  that 
holdeth  against  it  we  will  slay  him.    And  therewithal  they 
kneeled  down  all  at  once,  both  rich  and  poor,  and  cried  255 
l\.rthur  mercy,  because  they  had  delayed  him  so  long. 
And  Arthur  forgave  them,  and  took  the  sword  between 
both  his  hands,  and  oflFered  it  upon  the  altar  where  the 
archbishop  was,  and  so  was  he  made  knight  of  the  best 
man  that  was  there.     And  so 'anon  was  the  coronation  a6o 
made,  and  there  was  he  sworn  unto  his  lords  and  the 
commons  for  to  be  a  true  king,  to  stand  with  true  justice 
from  thenceforth  the  days  of  this  life.    Also  then  he  made 
all  lords  that  held  of  the  crown  to  come  in,  and  to  do 
service  as  they  ought  to  do.    And  many  complaints  were  265 
made  unto  Sir  Arthur  of  great  wrongs  that  were  done 
since  the  death  of  king  Uther,  of  many  lands  that  were 
bereaved  lords,  knights,  ladies,  and  gentlemen.     \VTiere- 
fore  king  Arthur  made  the  lands  to  be  given  again  unto 
them  that  owned  them.     When  this  was  done  that  the  270 
king  had  stablished  all  the  countries  about  London,  then 
he  let  make  Sir  Kay  seneschal  of  England ;    and  Sir 
Baud  win  of  Britain  was  made  constable  ;  and  Sir  Ulfius 
was  made  chamberlain ;  and  Sir  Brastias  was  made  war- 
den to  wait  upon  the  north  from  Trent  forwards,  for  it  275 
was  that  time,  for  the  most  part,  the  king's  enemies'. 
But  within  a  few  years  after,  Arthur  won  all  the  north, 
Scotland,  and  all  that  were  under  their  obeisance.     Also 
Wales,  a  part  of  it  held  against  Arthur,  but  he  overcame 
them  all  as  he  did  the  remnant  through  the  noble  prow-  280 
ess  of  himself  and  his  knights  of  the  Round  Table. 


28  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 


Galahad  and  the  Sword 

At  the  vigil  of  Pentecost,  when  all  the  fellowship  of 
the  Round  Table  were  "comeh  unto  Caraelot,  and  there 
heard  their  service,  and  the  tables  were  set  ready  to  the 
meat,  right  so  entered  into  the  hall  a  full  fair  gentle- 
woman on  horseback,  that  had  ridden  full  fast,  for  her  5 
horse  was  all  besweat.  Then  she  there  alight,  and  came 
before  the  king,  and  saluted  him ;  and  then  he  said, 
Damsel,  God  thee  bless  !  Sir,  said  she,  I  pray,  you  say 
me  where  Sir  Launcelot  is?  Yonder  ye  may  see  him, 
said  the  king.  Then  she  went  unto  Launcelot  and  said,  10 
Sir  Launcelot,  I  salute  you  on  king  Pelles'  behalf,  and  I 
require  you  come  on  with  me  hereby  into  a  forest.  Then 
Sir  Launcelot  asked  her  with  whom  she  dwelled?  I  dwell, 
said  she,  with  king  Pelles.  What  will  ye  with  me  ?  said 
Sir  Launcelot.  Ye  shall  know,  said  she,  when  ye  come  15 
thither.  Well,  said  he,  I  will  gladly  go  with  you.  So  Sir 
Launcelot  bade  his  squire  saddle  his  horse  and  bring  his 
arms;  and  in  all  haste  he  did  his  commandment.  Then 
came  the  queen  unto  Launcelot  and  said.  Will  ye  leave 
us  at  this  high  feast  ?  Madam,  said  the  gentlewoman,  wit  20 
ye  well  he  shall  be  with  you  to-morrow  by  dinner-time. 
If  I  wist,  said  the  queen,  that  he  should  not  be  with  us 
here  to-mora,  he  should  not  go  with  you  by  my  good 
will. 

Right  so  departed  Sir  Launcelot  with  the  gentlewoman,  25 
and  rode  until  tHat  he  came  into  a  forest,  and  into  a 
great  valley,  where  they  saw  an  abbey  of  nuns ;  and 
there  was  a  squire  ready,  and  opened  the  gates ;  and  so 
they  entered,  and  descended  off  their  horses,  and  there 
came  a  fair  fellowship  about  Sir  Launcelot  and  welcomed  30 


MALORY  29 

him,  and  were  passing  glad  of  his  coming.  And  then  they 
led  him  into  the  Abbess's  charaber^and  unarmed  him, 
and  right  so  he~waswat^  upon  a  bed  lying  two  of  his 
cousins,  Sir  Bors  and  Sir  Lionel,  and  then  he  waked 
them,  and  when  they  saw  him  they  made  great  joy.  Sir,  35 
said  Sir  Bors  unto  Sir  Launcelot,  what  adventure  hath 
brought  thee  hither,  for  we  wend  to-morrow  to  have 
found  you  at  Camelot?  Truly,  said  Sir  Launcelot,  a 
gentlewoman  brought  me  hither,  but  I  know  not  the 

/cause.     In  the  meanwhile,  as  they  thus  stood  talking  40 
together,  there  came  twelve  nuns  which   brought  with 
them  Galahad,  the  which  was  passing  fair  and  well  made, 
V~  that  unneth  in  the  world  men  might  not  find  his  match ; 
and  all  those  ladies  wept.     Sir,  said  the  ladies,  we  bring 
you  here  this  child,  the  which  we  have  nourished,  and  45 
we  pray  you  to  make  him   a   knight ;    for  of  a  more 
\vortlIier  man's  hand  may  he  not  receive  the  order  of 
knighthood.      Sir  Launcelot  beheld  that  young  squire, 
and  saw  him  seemly  and  demure  as'a  dove,  with  all 
manner  of  good  features,  that  he  wend  of  his  age  never  50 
to  have  seen  so  fair  a  man  of  form.  /^Then  said  Sir 
Launcelot,  Cometh  this  desire  of  himself?     He  and  all 
they  said.  Yea.     Then  shall  he,  said  Sir  Launcelot,  re- 
ceive the  high  order  of  knighthood  as  to-morrow  at  the 
reverence  of  the  high  feast.i   That  night  Sir  Launcelot  55 
had  passing  good  cheer,  and  on  the  morn  at  the  hour 
of  pnme,  at  Galahad's  desire,  he  made  him  knight,  and 
said,  God  make  him  a  good  man,  for  beauty  faileth  you 
not  as  any  that  liveth. 

Now,  fair  sir,  said  Sir  Launcelot,  will  ye  come  with  me  60 
unto  the  court  of  king  Arthur  ?     Nay,  said  he,  I  will  not 
go  with  you  as  at  this  time.     Then  he  departed  from 
them  and  took  his  two  cousins  with  him,  and  so  they 


36  FJiOM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

came  unto  Camelot  by  the  hour  of  undeme  on  Whitsun- 
day.    By  that  time  the  king  and  the  queen  were  gone  to  65 
the  minster  to  hear  their  service  :  then  the  king  and  the 
queen  were  passing  glad  of  Sir  Bors  and  Sir  Lionel,  and 
so  was  all  the  fellowship.     So  when  the  king  and  all  the 
knights  were  come  from  service,  the  barons  espied  in 
the  sieges  of  the  Round  Table,  all  about  written  with  70 
gold  letters  — I  Here  ought  to  sit  he,  and  he  ought  to  sit 
here.^  And  thus  they  went  so  long  until  that  they  came 
to  the  siege  perilous,  where  they  found  letters  newly  writ- 
ten of  gold,  that  said  :   Four  hundred  winters  and  fifty- 
four  accomplished  after  the  passion  of  our  Lord  Jesu  75 
Christ  ought  this  siege  to  be  fulfilled.      Then  all  they 
said.  This  is  a  marvellous  thing,  and  an  adventurous.     In 
the  name  of  God,  said  Sir  Launcelot ;   and  then  he  ac- 
counted the  term  of  the  writing,  fi-om  the  birth  of  our 
Lord  unto  that  day.     It  seemeth  me,  said  Sir  Launcelot,  80 
this  siege  ought  to  be  fulfilled  this  same  day,  for  this  is 
the  feast  of  Pentecost  after  the  four  hundred  and  four 
and  fifty  year ;  and  if  it  would  please  all  parties,  I  would 
none  of  these  letters  were  seen  this  day,  till  he  be  come 
that  ought  to  achieve  this  adventure.     Then  made  they  85    ^;^ 
to  ordain  a  cloth  of  silk  for  to  cover  these  letters  in  the      ^* 
siege  perilous.     Then  the  king  bad  haste  unto  dinner. 
Sir,  said  Sir  Kay  the  steward,  if  ye  go  now  unto  your 
meat,  ye  shall  break  your  old  custom  of  your  court.    For 
ye  have  not  used  on  this  day  to  sit  at  ypitf  ig£at  or  that  90 
ye  have  seen  some  adventure.     Ye  say  sooth,  said  the 
king,  but  I  had  so  great  joy  of  Sir  Launcelot  and  of  his 
cousins,  which  be  come  to  the  court  whole  and  sound, 
that  I  bethought  me  not  of  my  old  custonfcvySo  as  they 
stood  speaking,  in  came  a  squire,  and  said  uruo  the  king,  95 
Sir,  I  bring  unto  you  marvellous  tidings.     What  be  they  ? 


^ 


MALORY  31 

said  the  king.  Sir,  there  is  here  beneath  at  the  river 
a  great  stone,  which  I  saw  fleet  above  the  water,  and 
therein  saw  I  sticking  a  sword.  The  king  said,  I  will  see 
that  marvel.  So  all  the  knights  went  with  him,  and  when  100 
they  came  unto  the  river,  they  found  there^  ^A*^  fleet- 
ing, as  it  were  of  red  marble,  and  therein  std!c^a  fair  and 
a  rich  sword,  and  in  the  pommel  thereof  were  precious 
stones,  wrought  with  sbbtil  letters  of  gold.  Then  the 
barons  read  the  letters,  which  said  in  this  wise :  Never  105 
shall  man  take  me  hence  but  only  he  by  whose  side  I 
ought  to  hang,  and  he  shall  be  the  best  knight  of  the 
world.  When  the  king  had  seen  these  letters,  he  said 
unto  Sir  Launcelot,  Fair  sir,  this  sword  ought  to  be  yours, 
for  I  am  sure  ye  be  the  best  knight  of  the  world.  Then  no 
Sir  Launcelot  answered  full  soberly :  Certes,  sir,  it  is  not 
my  sword  :  also,  sir,  wit  ye  well  I  have  no  hardiness  to 
set  my  hand  to,  for  it  longed  not  to  hang  by  my  side. 
Also  who  that  assayeth  to  take  that  sword,  and  faileth  of 
it,  he  shall  receive  a  wound  by  that  sword,  that  he  shall  115 
not  be  whole  long  after.  And  I  will  that  ye  wit  that  this 
same  day  will  the  adventures  of  the  Sancgreal,  that  is 
called  the  holy  vessel,  begin. 

Now,  fair  nephew,  said  the  king  unto  Sir  Gawaine, 
assay  ye  for  my  love.  Sir,  he  said,  save  your  good  grace,  120 
I  shall  not  do  that.  Sir,  said  the  king,  assay  to  take  the 
sword,  and  at  my  commandment.  Sir,  said  Gawaine, 
your  commandment  I  will  obey.  And  therewith  he  took 
up  the  sword  by  the  handles,  but  he  might  not  stir  it. 
I  thank  you,  said  the  king  to  Sir  Gawaine.  My  lord  Sir  125 
Gawaine,  said  Sir  Launcelot,  now  wit  ye  well,  this  sword 
shall  touch  you  so  sore  that  ye  shall  will  ye  had  never  set 
your  hand  thereto,  for  the  best  castle  of  this  realm.  Sir, 
he  said,  I  might  not  withsay  mine  uncle's  will  and  com- 


^i  FROM  CMAUCER    to  ARNOLD 

mandment.     But  when  the  king  heard  this,  he  repented  130 


\ 


it  much,  and  said  unto  Sir  Percivale,  that  he  should  assay  .  p 
for  his  love.  And  he  said,  Gladly,  for  to  bear  Sir  Ga- 
waine  fellowship.  And  therewith  he  set  his  hand  on  the 
sword,  and  drew  it  strongly,  but  he  might  not  move  it. 
Then  were  there  more  that  durst  be  so  hardy  to  set  their  135 
hands  thereto.  Now  may  ye  go  to  your  dinner,  said  Sir 
Kay  unto  the  king,  for  a  marvellous  adventure  have  ye 
seeor^s 

So  the  king  and  all  went  unto  the  court,  and  every 
knight  knew  his  own  place,  and  set  him  therein,  and  140 
young  men  that  were  knights  served  thorn.      So  when 
they  were  served,  and  all  sieges,  fulfilled^  save  only  the  1 

siege  perilous,  anon  there  befell' a  majyellous  adventure,      "     ^^ 
that  all  the  doors  ^n^the  windows^  of  the  place  shut  by         J^ 
themself.     Not  fof  then  the  1^1  was  not  greatly  dark-  ^^ 
ened,  and  therewith  they  abwied  both  one  and  otherAA 
Then  king  Arthur  spake  first,  and  said>  Fai^  fellowijmHfl 
16  /f  AAH^^^^  ^^  \\.'ast  seen  this  day  marvels,  but  or  night  I  sup- 
pose we  shall  see  greater  marvels.     In  the  mean  while 
came  in  a  good  old  man,  and  an  ancient,  clothed  all  in  150 
white,  and  there  was  no  knight  knew  from  whence  he 


came.    And  with  him  he  brought  a  young  knight,  bQth  y 
on  foot,  in  red  arms,  without  sword  or  shield, ~^ve^A' 


^J'^^ 


scabbard  hanging  by  his  side.  And  these  words  he  said, 
^^'^jL.Peace  be  with  you,  fair  lords.  Then  the  old  man  said  155 
unto  Arthur,  Sir,  I  bring  here  a  young  knight  the  which 
is  of  king's  lineage,  and  of  the  kindred  of  Joseph  of 
Arimathie,  whereby  the  marvels  of  this  court  and  of 
strange  realms  shall  be  fully  accomplished. 

The  king  was  right  glad  of  his  words,  and  said  unto  160 
the  good  man,  Sir,'j'e  be  right  welcome,  and  the  young 
knight  with  you.     Then  the  old  man  made  the  young 


'fi/M/*^       >^^    ^'    '»^-^v vv^-v- —     \  1     — <*r 


MALORY  33 

man  to  unarm  him  ;  and  he  was  in  a  coat  of  red  sendel, 
and  bare  a  mantle  upon  his  shoulder  that  was  furred  with 
ermine,  and   put  that  upon  him.     And  the  old  knight  165 
said  unto  the  young  knight,  Sir,  follow  me.     And  amin 
he  led  him  unto  the  siege  perilous,  where  beside  sat  Sir 
Launcelot,  and  the  good  man  lift  up  the  cloth,  and  found 
there  Jesters  that  said  thus  :  This  is  the  siege  of  Galahad 
the  ha^  prince.    Sir,  said  the  old  knight,  wit  ye  well  that  170 
place  is  yours.     And  then  he  set  him  down  surely  in  that 
siege.     And  then  he  said  to  the  old  man,  Sir,  ye  may 
now  go  your  way,  for  well  have  ye  done  that  ye  were 
commanded  to  do.    And  recommend  me  unto  my  grand- 
sire  king  Pelles,  and  say  to  him  on  my  behalf,  I  shall  175 
come  and  see  him  as  soon  as  ever  I  may^  So  the  good 
man  departed,  and  there  met  him  twenty  noble  squires, 
and  so  took  their  horses  and  went  their  way.     Then  all 
the  knights  of  the  Table  Round  marvelled  them  greatly 
of  Sir  Galahad,  that  he  durst  sit  there  in  that  siege  peril- 180 
ous,  and  was  so  tender  of  age,  and  wist  not  from  whence 
he  came,  but  all  only  by  God,  and  said.  This  is  he  by 
whom  the  Sancgreal  shall  be  achieved,  for  there  sat  never 
none  but  he,  but  he  were  mischieved.    Then  Sir  Launce- 
lot beheld  his  son,  and  had  great  joy  of  him.     Then  Sir  185 
Bors  told  his  fellows,  Upon  pain  of  my  life  this  young 
knight  shall  come  unto  great  worship. 

This  noise  was  great  in  all  the  court,  so  that  it  came 
to  the  queen.  Then  she  had  marvel  what  knight  it 
might  be  that  durst  adventure  him  to  sit  in  the  siege  190 
perilous.  Many  said  unto  the  queen,  he  resembled  much 
unto  Sir  Launcelot.  I  may  well  suppose,  said  the  queen, 
that  he  is  son  of  Sir  Launcelot  and  king  Pelles'  daughter, 
and  his  name  is  Galahad.  I  would  fain  see  him,  said  the 
queen,  for  he  must  needs  be  a  noble  man,  for  so  is  his  195 


34  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

father ;  I  report  me  unto  all  the  Table  Round.  So  when 
the  meat  was  done,  that  the  king  and  all  were  risen,  the 
king  went  unto  the  siege  perilous,  and  lift  up  the  cloth, 
and  found  there  the  name  of  Galahad,  and  then  he 
shewed  it  unto  Sir  Gawaine,  and  said,  Fair  nephew,  now  200 
have  we  among  us  Sir  Galahad  the  good  knight,  that 
shall  worship  us  all,  and  upon  pain  of  my  life  he  shall 
achieve  the  Sancgreal,  right  so  as  Sir  Launcelot  hath 
done  us  to  understand.  Then  came  king  Arthur  unto 
Galahad,  and  said.  Sir,  ye  be  welcome,  for  ye  shall  move  205 
many  good  knights  to  the  quest  of  the  Sancgreal,  and 
ye  shall  achieve  that  never  knights  might  bring  to  an 
end.  Then  the  king  took  him  by  the  hand,  and  went 
down  from  the  palace  to  shew  Galahad  the  adventures  of 
the  stone.  210 

The  queen  heard  thereof,  and  came  after  with  many 
ladies,  and  shewed  them  the  stone  where  it  hoved  on  the 
water.  Sir,  said  the  king  unto  Sir  Galahad,  here  is  a 
great  marvel  as  ever  I  saw,  and  right  good  knights  have 
assayed  and  failed.  Sir,  said  Galahad,  that  is  no  marvel,  215 
for  this  adventure  is  not  theirs,  but  mine,  and  for  the 
surety  of  this  sword  I  brought  none  with  me ;  for  here 
by  my  side  hangeth  the  scabbard.  And  anon  he  laid  his 
hand  on  the  sword,  and  lightly  drew  it  out  of  the  stone, 
and  put  it  in  the  sheath  and  said  unto  the  king,  Now  it  220 
goeth  better  than  it  did  aforehand.  Sir,  said  the  king,  a 
shield  God  shall  send  you. 


MALORY  35 


TJie  Institution  of  the  Quest 

Now,  said  the  king,  I  am  sure  at  this  quest  of  the 
Sancgreal  shall  all  ye  of  the  Table  Round  depart,  and 
never  shall  I  see  you  again  whole  together,  therefore  I 
will  see  you  all  whole  together  in  the  meadow  of  Came- 
lot,  to  just  and  to  tourney,  that  after  your  death  men  5 
may  speak  of  it,  that  such  good  knights  were  wholly 
together  such  a  day.  As  unto  that  counsel,  and  at  the 
king's  request,  they  accorded  all,  and  took  on  their  har- 
ness that  longed  unto  justing.  But  all  this  moving  of 
the  king  was  for  this  intent,  for  to  see  Galahad  proved,  10 
for  the  king  deemed  he  should  not  lightly  come  again 
unto  the  court  after  his  departing.  So  were  they  assem- 
bled in  the  meadow,  both  more  and  less.  Then  Sir 
Galahad,  by  the  prayer  of  the  king  and  the  queen,  did 
upon  him  a  noble  jesserance,  and  also  he  did  on  his  15 
helm,  but  shield  would  he  take  none  for  no  prayer  of  the 
king.  And  then  Sir  Gawaine  and  other  knights  prayed 
him  to  take  a  spear.  Right  so  he  did;  and  the  queen 
was  in  a  tower  with  all  her  ladies  for  to  behold  that 
tournament.  Then  Sir  Galahad  dressed  him  in  the  midst  20 
of  the  meadow,  and  began  to  break  spears  marvellously, 
that  all  men  had  wonder  of  him,  for  he  there  surmounted 
all  other  knights,  for  within  a  while  he  had  thrown  down 
many  good  knights  of  the  Table  Round  save  twain,  that 
was  Sir  Launcelot  and  Sir  Percivale.  25 

And  then  the  king  and  all  estates  went  home  unto 
Camelot,  and  so  went  to  evensong  to  the  great  minster. 
And  so  after  upon  that  to  supper,  and  every  knight  sat 
in  his  own  place  as  they  were  toforehand.  Then  anon 
they  heard  cracking  and  crying  of  thunder,  that  them  30 


36  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

thought  the  place  should  all  to-drive.  In  the  midst  of 
this  blast  entered  a  sun-beam  more  clearer  by  seven 
times  than  ever  they  saw  day,  and  all  they  were  alighted 
of  the  grace  of  the  Holy  Ghost.  Then  began  every 
knight  to  behold  other,  and  either  saw  other  by  their  35 
seeming  fairer  than  ever  they  saw  afore.  Not  for  then 
there  was  no  knight  might  speak  one  word  a  great  while, 
and  so  they  looked  every  man  on  other,  as  they  had 
been  dumb.  Then  there  entered  into  the  hall  the  holy 
Graile  covered  with  white  samite,  but  there  was  none  40 
might  see  it,  nor  who  bare  it.  And  there  was  all  the  hall 
fulfilled  with  good  odours,  and  every  knight  had  such 
meats  and  drinks  as  he  best  loved  in  this  world ;  and 
when  the  holy  Graile  had  been  borne  through  the  hall, 
then  the  holy  vessel  departed  suddenly,  that  they  wist  45 
not  where  it  became.  Then  had  they  all  breath  to 
speak.  And  then  the  king  yielded  thankings  unto  God 
of  his  good  grace  that  he  had  sent  them.  Certes,  said 
the  king,  we  ought  to  thank  our  Lord  Jesu  greatly,  for 
that  he  hath  shewed  us  this  day  at  the  reverence  of  this  50 
high  feast  of  Pentecost.  Now,  said  Sir  Gawaine,  we  have 
been  served  this  day  of  what  meats  and  drinks  we  thought 
on,  but  one  thing  beguiled  us,  we  might  not  see  the  holy 
Graile,  it  was  so  preciously  covered :  wherefore  I  will 
make  here  avow,  that  to-morn,  without  longer  abiding,  55 
I  shall  labour  in  the  quest  of  the  Sancgreal,  that  I  shall 
hold  me  out  a  twelvemonth  and  a  day,  or  more  if  need 
be,  and  never  shall  I  return  again  unto  the  court  till  I 
have  seen  it  more  openly  than  it  hath  been  seen  here : 
and  if  I  may  not  speed,  I  shall  return  again  as  he  that  60 
may  not  be  against  the  will  of  our  Lord  Jesu  Christ. 
When  they  of  the  Table  Round  heard  Sir  Gawaine  say 
so,  they  rose  up  the  most  party,  and  made  such  avows  as 
Sir  Gawaine  had  made. 


MALORY  37 

Anon  as  king  Arthur  heard  this  he  was  greatly  dis-  65 
pleased,  for  he  wist  well  that  they  might  not  againsay 
their  avows.     Alas !  said  king  Arthur  unto  Sir  Gawaine, 
ye  have  nigh  slain  me  with  the  avow  and  promise  that  ye 
have  made.     For  through  you  ye  have  bereft  me  of  the 
fairest  fellowship  and  the  truest  of  knighthood  that  ever  70 
were  seen  together  in  any  realm  of  the  world.    For  when 
they  depart  from  hence,  I  am  sure  they  all  shall  never 
meet  more  in  this  world,  for  they  shall  die  many  in  the 
quest.     And  so  it  forethinketh  me  a  Httle,  for  I  have 
loved  them  as  well  as  my  life,  wherefore  it  shall  grieve  75 
me  right  sore  the  departition  of  this  fellowship.     For  I 
have  had  an  old  custom  to  have  them  in  my  fellow- 
ship. 

And  therewith  the  tears  filled  in  his  eyes.     And  then 
he  said,  Gawaine,  Gawaine,  ye  have  set  me  in  great  sor-  80 
row.     For  I  have  great  doubt  that  my  true  fellowship 
shall  never  meet  here  more  again.     Ah,  said  Sir  Launce- 
lot,  comfort  yourself,  for  it  shall  be  unto  us  as  a  great 
honour,  and  much  more  than  if  we  died  in  any  other 
places,  for  of  death  we  be  sure.     Ah  Launcelot,  said  the  85 
king,  the  great  love  that  I  have  had  unto  you  all  the 
days  of  my  life  maketh  me  to  say  such  doleful  words; 
for  never  christian  king  had  never  so  many  worthy  men 
at  this  table  as  I  have  had  this  day  at  the  Round  Table, 
and  that  is  my  great  sorrow.     When  the  queen,  ladies,  90 
and  gentlewomen  wist  these  tidings,  they  had  such  sor- 
row and  heaviness  that  there  might  no  tongue  tell  it,  for 
those  knights  had  holden  them  in  honour  and  charity. 
But  among  all  other  queen  Guenever  made  great  sorrow. 
I  marvel,  said  she,  my  lord  would  suffer  them  to  depart  95 
from  him.     Thus  was  all  the  court  troubled,  for  the  love 
of  the  departition  of  those  knights.     And  many  of  those 


38  FROM   CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

ladies  that  loved  knights  would   have  gone  with  their 
lovers ;  and  so  had  they  done,  had  not  an  old  knight 
come  among  them  in  religious  clothing,  and  then  he  loo 
spake  all  on  high  and  said.  Fair  lords  which  have  sworn 
in  the  quest  of  the  Sancgreal,  thus  sendeth  you  Nacien 
the  hermit  word,  that  none  in  this  quest  lead  lady  nor 
gentlewoman  with  him,  for  it  is  not  to  do  in  so  high  a 
service  as  they  labour  in,  for  I  warn  you  plain,  he  that  is  105 
not  clean  of  his  sins  he  shall  not  see  the  mysteries  of 
our  Lord  Jesu  Christ ;  and  for  this  cause  they  left  these 
ladies  and  gentlewomen.     And  then  they  went  to  rest 
them.     And  in  the  honour  of  the  highness  of  Galahad  he 
was  led  into  king  Arthur's  chamber  and  there  rested  in  no 
his  own  bed. 

And  as  soon  as  it  was  day  the  king  arose,  for  he  had 
no  rest  of  all  that  night  for  sorrow.  Then  he  went  unto 
Gawaine  and  to  Sir  Launcelot,  that  were  arisen  for  to  hear 
mass.  And  then  the  king  again  said.  Ah  Gawaine,  Ga- 115 
waine,  ye  have  betrayed  me.  For  never  shall  my  court 
be  amended  by  you,  but  ye  will  never  be  sorry  for  me  as 
I  am  for  you.  And  therewith  the  tears  began  to  run 
down  by  his  visage.  And  therewith  the  king  said.  Ah, 
knight.  Sir  Launcelot,  I  require  thee  thou  counsel  me,  for  120 
I  would  that  this  quest  were  undone,  and  it  might  be. 
Sir,  said  Sir  Launcelot,  ye  saw  yesterday  so  many  worthy 
knights  that  then  were  sworn,  that  they  may  not  leave  it 
in  no  manner  of  wise.  That  wot  I  well,  said  the  king, 
but  it  shall  so  heavy  me  at  their  departing,  that  I  wot  125 
well  there  shall  no  manner  of  joy  remedy  me.  And  then 
the  king  and  the  queen  went  unto  the  minster.  So  anon 
Launcelot  and  Gawaine  commanded  their  men  to  bring 
their  arms.  And  when  they  all  were  armed,  save  their 
shields  and  their  helms,  then  they  came  to  their  fellow- 130 


\rsr\\M- 


MALORY 


ship,  which  all  were  ready  in  the  same  wise  for  to  go  to 
the  minster  to  hear  their  service. 

Then  after  the  service  was  done,  the  king  would  wit 
how  many  had  taken  the  quest  of  the  holy  Graile,  and  to  .^    j, 

account  them  he  prayed  them  all.     Then  found  they  by  135  .    • 

tale  an  hundred   and  fifty,  and  all  were  knights  of  the      j'^-"^ 
Round  Table.     And  then  they  put  on  their  helms,  and    "X/C-tA    . 
departed,  and  recommended   them  all  wholly  unto  the   -y-       a,iA^ 
the  queen,  and  there  was  weeping  and   great   sorrow,  \ 

Then  the  queen  departed  into  her  chamber  so  that  no  140  /►^^^^-'^'^ 
man  should  perceive  her  great  sorrows.  When  Sir  Laun-  -^1  [yjK 
celot  missed  the  queen  he  went  into  her  chamber,  and  n 

when  she  saw  him  she  cried  aloud,  O  Sir  Launcelot,  ye         ^ 
have  betrayed  me  and  put  me  to  death,  for  to  leave  thus  \      - 

my  lord.     Ah,  madam,  said  Sir  Launcelot,  I  pray  you  be  145      T; 
not  displeased,  for  I  shall  come  again  as  soon  as  I  may 
with  my  worship.     Alas,  said  she,  that  ever  I  saw  you  ! 
but  He  that  suffered  death  upon  the  cross  for  all  man- 
kind, be  to  your  good  conduct  and  safety,  and  all  the 
whole  fellowship.     Right  so  departed  Sir  Launcelot,  and  150 
found  his  fellowship  that  abode  his  coming.    And  so  they 
mounted  upon  their  horses,  and  rode  through  the  streets 
of  Camelot,  and  there  was  weeping  of  the  rich  and  poor, 
and  the  king  turned  away,  and  might  not  speak  for  weep- 
ing.    So  within  a  while  they  came  to  a  city  and  a  castle  155 
that  hight  Vagon  :  there  they  entered  into  the  castle,  and 
the  lord  of  that  castle  was  an  old  man  that  hight  Vagon, 
and  he  was  a  good  man  of  his  living,  and  set  open  the 
gates,  and  made  them  all  the  good  cheer  that  he  might. 
And  so  on  the  morrow  they  were  all  accorded  that  they  160 
should  depart  every  each  from  other.    And  then  they  de- 
parted on  the  morrow  with  weeping  and  mourning  cheer, 
and  every  knight  took  the  way  that  him  best  liked. 


JOHN    LYLY 

Cupid  and  my  Carnpaspe  played 
At  cards  for  kisses  —  Cupid  paid. 
He  stakes  his  quiver,  bows,  and  arrows, 
^      y  His  mother's  doves^and  team  of  sparrows  : 
Loses  them  too  ;  then  down  he  throws 
The  coral  of  his  lip,  the  rose 
Growing  oft.'s  cheek  (but  none  knows  how)  ; 
With  these  the  crystal  of  his  brow, 
And  then  the  dimple  of  his  chin  — 
All  these  did  my  Campaspe  win. 
At  last  he  set  her  both  his  eyes.  — 
She  won,  and  Cupid  blind  did  rise. 

O  Love,  has  she  done  this  to  thee? 

What  shall,  alas  !  become  of  me  ?  t/j  \x/^jt^  O 

TXCt^fff^^'       ^«rSAPPHO'S   SONG 

O  CRUEL  Love  !  on  thee  I  lay 
My  curse,  which  shall  strike  blind  the  day ; 
Never  may  sleep  with  velvet  hand 
Charm  thine  eyes  with  sacred  wand ; 
Thy  jailors  still  be  hopes  and  fears  ; 
Thy  prison-mates  groans,  sighs,  and  tears ; 
40 


LYLY  41 

Thy  play  to  wear  out  weary  times, 
Fantastic  passions,  vows,  and  rhymes ; 
Thy  bread  be  frowns ;  thy  drink  be  gall ; 
Such  as  when  you  Phao  call  lo 

The  bed  thou  liest  on  by  despair ; 
Thy  sleep,  fond  dreams  ;  thy  dreams,  long  care ; 
Hope  (like  thy  fool)  at  thy  bed's  head, 
^Mock  thee,  till  madness  strikes  thee  dead, 
As  Phao,  thou  dost  me,  with  thy  proud  eyes.  15 

In  thee  poor  Sappho  lives,  in  thee  she  dies. 


J 


^^PAN'S   SONG 


Pan's  Syrinx  was  a  girl  indeed, 

Though  now  she's  turned  into  a  reed. 

From  that  dear  reed  Pan's  pipe  doth  come, 

A  pipe  that  strikes  Apollo  dumb ; 

Nor  flute,  nor  lute,  nor  gittern  can  5 

So  chant  it,  as  the  pipe  of  Pan. 

Cross-gartered  swains,  and  dairy  girls. 

With  faces  smug  and  round  as  pearls, 

When  Pan's  shrill  pipe  begins  to  play, 

With  dancing  wear  out  night  and  day ;  to 

The  bag-pipe  drone  his  hum  lays  by 

When  Pan  sounds  up  his  minstrelsy. 

His  minstrelsy  !    O  base  !    This  quill 

Which  at  my  mouth  with  wind  I  fill 

Puts  me  in  mind  though  her  I  miss  15 

That  still  my  Syrinx'  hps  I  kiss. 


C-^rv^  ^  -^^      [  --^^.^-t^  '4  i^^^  'WVM 


42  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

/i^^      i^EUPHUES  AND   HIS  ENGLAND 

^  Euphues  Glasse  for  Europe 

O  DIVINE  nature,  O  heavenly  nobilitie,  what  thing  can\ttv.A^.- 
there  more  be  required  in   a   Prince  ^eh  in  greatest 
power  to  shewe  greatest  patience,  in  chiefest  glorye  to 
bring  forth  chiefest  grace,  in  abundaunce  of  all  earthlye 
pom[p]e  to  manifest  aboundaunce  of  all  heavenlye  pietie:    5 

0  fortunate  England  that  hath  such  a  Queene,  ungrate- 
full,  if  thou  praye  not  for  hir,  wicked,  if  thou  do  not  love 
hir,  miserable,  if  thou  loose  hir. .      -  '  . 

Heere,  Ladies,  is  a  Glasse  for  all  Princes  to  behold, 
that  being  called  to  dignitie,  they  use  moderation,  not  10 
might,  tempering  the  severitie  of  the  lawes  with  the  mild- 
nes  of  love,  not  executing  al[l]  they  wil,  but  shewing  what 
they  may.  Happy  are  they,  and  onely  they,  that  are  under 
I  this  glorious  and  gracious  Sovereigntie ;  insomuch  that  I 
'accompt  all  those  abjects,  that  be  not  hir  subjectes.  15 

But  why  doe  I  treade  still  in  one  path,  when  I  have  so 
large  a  fielde  to  walke,  or  lynger  about  one  flower,  when 

1  have  manye  to  gather :  where-in  I  resemble  those  that, 
beeinge  delighted  with  the  little  brooke,  neglect  the  foun- 
taines  head,  or  that  painter  that,  being  curious  to  coulour  20 
Cupids  Bow,  forgot  to  paint  the  string. 

As  this  noble  Prince  is  endued  with  mercie,  pacience, 
and  moderation,  so  is  she  adoumed  with  singuler  beautie 
and  chastitie,  excelling  in  the  one  Venus,  in  the  other 
Vesta.  Who  knoweth  not  how  rare  a  thing  it  is.  Ladies,  25 
to  match  virginitie  with  beautie,  a  chast[e]  minde  with 
an  amiable  face,  divine  QOgitations  with  a  comelye  coun- 
tenaunce  ?     But  suche  is  the  grace  bestowed  uppon  this 


im^A-  6L  \J 


AJ 


LYLY  43 


earthlye  Goddesse,  that,  having  the  beautie  that  myght 
allure  all  Princes,  she  hath  the  chastitie  also  to  refuse  all,  30 
accounting  [accompting]  it  no  lesse  praise  to  be  called 
a  Virgin,  then  to  be  esteemed  a  Venus,  thinking  it  as 
great  honour  to  bee  found  chast[e],  as  thought  amiable. 
Where  is  now  Elytra,  the  chast[e]  Daughter  of  Aga- 
memnon ?    Where  is  Lata,  that  renoumed  Virgin  ?    Wher  35 
is  AentfUa,  that  through  hir  chastitie  wrought  wonders,  in 
maintayning  continuall  fire  at  the  Altar  of  Vesta?    Where 
is  Claudia,  that  to  manifest  hir  virginitie  set  the  Shippe 
on  float  with  hir  finger,  that  multitudes  could  not  remove 
by  force  ?    Where  is  Tuscia,  one  of  the  same  order,  that  40 
brought  to  passe  no  lesse  mervailes  by  carrying  water  in  a 
sive,  not  shedding  one  drop  from  Tiber  to  the  Temple  of 
Vestal     If  Virginitie  have  such  force,  then  what  hath 
this  chast  Virgin  Elizabeth  don[e],  who  by  the  space  of 
twenty  and  odde  yeares  with  continuall  peace  against  all  45 
policies,  with  sundry  myracles  contrary  to  all  hope,  hath 
governed  that  noble   Island?     Against  whome  neyther 
forre[i]n  force,  nor  civill  fraude,  neyther  discorde   at 
home,  nor  conspiracies  abroad,  could  prevaile.     What 
greater  mervaile  hath  happened  since  the  beginning  of  50 
the  world,  then  for  a  young  and  tender  Maiden  to  govern 
strong  and  valiaunt  menne,  then  for  a  Virgin  to  make  the 
whole  worlde,  if  not  to  stand  in  awe  of  hir,  yet  to  honour 
hir,  yea  and  to  live  in  spight  of  all  those  that  spight  hir, 
with  hir  sword  in  the  she[a]th,  with  hir  armour  in  the  55 
Tower,  with  hir  souldiers  in  their  gownes,  insomuch  as 
hir  peace  may  be  called  more  blessed  then  the  quiet 
raigne  of  Numa^r^mpilius,  in  whose   government  the 
Bees  have  made  their  hives  in  the  soldiers  helmettes? 
Now  is  the  Temple  of  Jamts  removed  from  Rome  to  60 
England,  whose  dore  hath  not  bene  opened  this  twentie 


44  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

yeares,  more  to  be  mervayled  at  then  the  regiment  of 
U{Debora,  who  ruled  twentie  yeares  with  reHgion,  or  Seme- 
riamis  \Semyramis\  that  governed  long  with  power,  or 
K\Zenobia,  that  reigned  six  yeares  in  prosperitie.  65 

This,  is  the  onelye  myracle  that  virginitie  ever  wrought, 
for  a  little  Island  environed  round  about  with  warres  to 
stande  in  peace,  for  the  walles  of  Fraunce  to  burne,  and 
the  houses  of  England  to  freese,  for  all  other  nations 
eyther  with  civile  [cruell]  sworde  to  bee  devided,  or  with  70 
forren  foes  to  be  invaded,  and  that  countrey  neyther  to 
be  molested  with  broyles  in  their  owne  bosomes,  nor 
threatned  with  blasts  of  other  borderers :  But  alwayes 
though  not  laughing,  yet  looking  through  an  Emeraudi^f^ 
at  others  jarres.  ^  ^-,  ,75 

Their  fielxis  have  beene  Sowne  with  come,  straungers 
theirs  pytched  withDamps ;  they  have  their  men  reaping 
their  harvest,  when  others  are  mustring  in  their  harneis ; 
they  use  their  peeces  to  fowle  for  pleasure,  others  their 
Calivers  for  feare  of  perrill.  O  blessed  peace,  oh  happy  80 
Prince,  O  fortunate  people :  The  lyving  God  is  onely  the 
English  God,  wher[e]  he  hath  placed  peace,  which  bryng- 
eth  all  plentie,  annoynted  a  Virgin  Queene,  which  with  a 
wand  ruleth  hir  owne  subjects,  and  with  hir  worthinesse 
winneth  the  good  willes  of  straungers,  so  that  she  is  no  85 
lesse  gratious  among  hir  own,  then  glorious  to  others,  no 
lesse  loved  of  hir  people,  then  merva[i]led  at  of  other 

nations.  C\  ^'^UA^Xx^<-    ^    \^   It^^U  ■ 

^This  IS  the  blessmg  that  Cnnst  alwayes  gave  to  his 
people,  peace :  This  is  the  curse  that  hee  giveth  to  the  90 
wicked,  there  shall  bee  no  peace  to  the  ungodlye :  This 
was  the  onely  salutation  hee  used  to  his  Disciples,  peace 
be  unto  you :  And  therefore  is  hee  called  the  G  O  D  of 
love,  and  peace  in  hoUye  [holy]  writte. 


%i 


iviy  45 


In  peace  was  the  Temple  of  the  Lorde  buylt  by  Salo-  95 
mofi,  Christ  would  not  be  borne  untill  there  were  peace 
through-out  the  whole  worlde,  this  was  the  only  thing  that 
Esechias  prayed  for,  let  there  be  trueth  and  peace,  O 
Lorde,  in  my  dayes.  All  which  examples  doe  manifestly 
prove,  that  ther[e]  can  be  nothing  given  of  God  to  man  100 
more  notable  than  peace. 

This  peace  hath  the  Lorde  continued  with  great  and 
unspeakeable  goodnesse  amonge  his  chosen  people  oi  Eng- 
land. How  much  is  that  nation  bounde  to  such  a  Prince, 
by  whome  they  enjoye  all  benefits  of  peace,  having  their  105 
barnes  full,  when  others  famish,  their  cof[f]ers  stuffed 
with  gold,  when  others  have  no  silver,  their  wives  without 
daunger,  when  others  are  defamed,  their  daughters  chast, 
when  others  are  defloured,  theyr  houses  furnished,  when 
others  are  fired,  where  they  have  all  thinges  for  superflu-  no 
itie,  others  nothing  to  sustaine  their  neede.  This  peace 
hath  God  given  for  hir  vertues,  pittie,  moderation,  virgin- 
itie,  which  peace,  the  same  God  of  peace  continue  for  his 
names  sake.  '\ 

Touching  the  beautie  of  this  Prince,  hir  countenaunce,  115 
hir  personage,  hir  majestie,  I  can-not  thinke  that  it  may 
be  sufficiently  commended,  when  it  can-not  be  too  much 
mervailed  at :  So  that  I  am  constrained  to  saye  as  Prax-^ 
ttiles  did,  when  hee  beganne  to  paynt  Venus-  and  hir  Sonnej^ 
who  doubted  whether  the  worlde  could  affoorde  ccdilours  120 
good  enough  for  two  such  fayre  faces,  and  I' whether  our 
tongue  canne  yeelde  wordes  to  blase  that  beautie,  the 
perfection  where-of  none  canne  imagine,  which  seeing  it 
is  so,  I  must  doe  like  those  that  want  a  cleere  sight,  who 
being  not  able  toj^iscerne  the  S\mne  in  the  Skie  are  in- 125 
forced  to  beholde  it  in  the  waterj   Zeuxis  having  before 
him  fiftie  faire  virgins  of  Sparta,  where  by  to  draw  one 


46  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

amiable   Venus,  said  that  fiftie  more  fayrer  than  those 
coulde  not  minister  sufficient  beautie  to  shewe  the  God- 
esse  of  beautie  ;  therefore  being  in  dispaire  either  by  art  130 
to  shadow  hir,  or  by  imagination  to  comprehend  hir,  he 
drew  in  a  table  a  faire  temple,  the  gates  open,  and  Venus 
going  in,  so  as  nothing  coulde  be  perceived  but  hir  backe, 
wherein  he  used  such  cunning  that  Appelles  himselfe  see- 
ing this  worke,  wished  yat  Venus  woulde  turne  hir  face,  135 
saying  yat  if  it  were  in  all  partes  agreeable  to  the  backe, 
he  woulde  become  apprentice  to  Zeuxis,  and  slave  to 
Venus.     ;In  the  like  manner  fareth  it  with  me,  for  having 
all  the  Ladyes  in  Italy  more  than  fiftie  hundered,  whereby 
to  coulour  Elizabeth,  I  must  say  with  Zeuxis,  that  as  140 
many  more  will  not  suffise,  and  therefore  in  as  great  an 
agonie  paint  hir  court  with  hir  back  towards  you,  for  yat 
I  cannot  by  art  portraie  hir  beautie,  wherein  though  I 
want  the  skill  to  doe  it  as  Zeuxis  did,  yet  v[i]ewing  it 
narrowly,  and  comparing  it  wisely,  you  all  will  say  yat  if  145 
hir  face  be  aunswerable  to  hir  backe,  you  wil[l]  like  my 
handi-crafte,  and  become  hir  handmaides^    In  the  meane 
season  I  leave  you  gazing  untill  she  turne  hir  face,  imag- 
ining hir  to  be  such  a  one  as  nature  framed  to  yat  end, 
that  no  art  should  imitate,  wherein  shee  hath  proved  hir  150 
selfe  to  bee  exquisite,  and  painters  to  be  Apes. 

This  BeautifuU  moulde  when  I  behelde  to  be  endued 
with  chastitie,  temperance,  mildnesse,  and  all  other  good 
giftes  of  nature  (as  hereafter  shall  appeare)  when  I  saw 
hir  to  surpasse  all  in  beautie,  and  yet  a  virgin,  to  excell  155 
all  in  pietie,  and  yet  a  prince,  to  be  inferiour  to  none  in 
all  the  liniaments  of  the  bodie,  and  yet  superiour  to  every 
one  in  all  giftes  of  the  minde,  I  beegan  thus  to  pray,  that 
as  she  hath  lived  fortie  yeares  a  virgin  in  great  majestie, 
so  she  may  lyve  fourescore  yeares  a  mother  with  great  160 


^ 


LYLY  47 

joye,  that  as  with  hir  we  have  long  time  hadde  peace  and 
plentie,  so  by  hir  we  may  ever  have  quietnesse  and  aboun- 
daunce,  wishing  this  even  from  the  bottome  of  a  heart 
that  wisheth  well  to  Englaiid,  though  feareth  ill,  that 
either  the  world  may  ende  before  she  dye,  or  she  lyve  165 
to  see  hir  childrens  children  in  the  world  :  otherwise, 
how  tickle  their  state  is  yat  now  triumph,  upon  what  a 
twist  they  hang  that  now  are  in  honour,  they  yat  lyve  shal 
see  which  I  to  thinke  on  sigh.  But  God  for  his  mercies 
sake,  Christ  for  his  merits  sake,  ye  holy  Ghost  for  his  170 
names  sake,  graunt  to  that  realme  comfort  without  anye 
ill  chaunce,  and  the  Prince  they  have  without  any  other 
chaunge,  that  ye  longer  she  liveth  the  sweeter  she  may 
smell,  lyke  the  bird^^^w^that  she  maye  be  triumphant  in 
victories  lyke  the  Palme  tree,  fruitfuU  in  hir  age  lyke  the  175 
Vyne,  in  all  ages  prosperous,  to  all  men  gratious,  in  all 
places  glorious :  so  that  there  be  no  ende  of  hir  praise, 
untill  the  ende  of  all  flesh. 

Thus  did  I  often  talke  with  my  selfe,  and  wishe  with 
mine  whole  soule  [heart].  180 

What  should  I  talke  of  hir  sharpe  wit,  excellent  wis- 
dome,  exquisite  learning,  and  all  other  qualities  of  the 
minde,  where-in  she  seemeth  as  farre  to  excell  those  that 
have  bene  accompted  singular,  as  the  learned  have  sur- 
passed those  that  have  bene  thought  simple  ?  185 

In  questioning  not  inferiour  \.o  Nicaulia  the  Queene  of) 
oa7a,Jthat  did  put  so  many  hard  doubts  to  Salomon^ 
equall   to  Nicostrata   in   the    6^r^^:^  tongue,  who   was 
thought  to  give  percepts  for  the  better  perfection  :  more 
learned  in  the  Latine  than  Amalasunta  :  passing  Aspasia  190 
in  Philosophie,  who  taught  Pericles :  exceeding  in  judge- 
ment Themistocldci-^  who  instructed  Pithagoraj,  adde  to 
these  qualyties  those  that  ^one  of  these  had,  the  French 


48  FROM  CHAUCER   TO  ARNOLD 

tongue,  the  Spanish,  the  Italian,  not  meane  in  every  one, 
but  excellent  in  all,  readyer  to  correct  escapes  in  those  195 
languages,  then  to  be  controlled,  fitter  to  teach  others, 
then  learne  of  anye,  more  able  to  adde  new  rules,  then 
to  err  in  ye  olde  :  Insomuch  as  there  is  no  Embassadour 
that  commeth  into  hir  court,  but  she  is  willing  and  able 
both  to  understand  his  message,  and  utter  hir  minde,  not  200 
lyke  unto  ye  Kings  oi  Assiria^^yAvo  aunswere[d]  Embas- 
sades  by  messengers,  while  they  themselves  either  dally 
in  sinne,  or  snort  in  sleepe.     Hir  godly  zeale  to  learning, 
with  hir  great  skil,  hath  bene  so  manifestly  approved,  yat 
I  cannot  tell  whether  she  deserve  more  honour  for  hir  205 
knowledge,  or  admiration  for  hir  curtesie,  who  in  great 
pompe  hath  twice  directed  hir  Progresse  unto  the  Uni- 
versities, with  no  lesse  joye  to  the  Students  then  glory  to 
hir  State.     Where,  after  long  and  solempne  disputations 
in  Law,  Phisicke,  and  Divinitie,  not  as  one  we[a]ried2io 
with  Scholers  arguments,  but  wedded  to  their  orations, 
when  every  one  feared  to  offend  in  length,  she  in  hir  own 
person,  with  no  lesse  praise  to  hir  Majestie,  then  delight 
to  hir  subjects,  with  a  wise  and  learned  conclusion,  both 
gave  them  thankes,  and  put  selfe  to  paines.     O  noble  215 
patterne  of  a  princelye  minde,  not  like  to  ye  kings  of 
Persia,  who  in  their  progresses  did  nothing  els  but  cut 
stickes  to  drive  away  the  time,  nor  Hke  ye  delicate  lives 
of  the  Sybarites,  who  would  not  admit  any  Art  to  be  exer- 
cised within  their  citie,  yat  might  make  ye  least  noyse.  220 
Hir  wit  so  sharp,  that  if  I  should  repeat  the  apt  aun- 
sweres,  ye  subtil  questions,  ye  fine  speaches,  ye  pithie 
sentences,  which  on   ye  sodain  she  hath  uttered,  they 
wold  rather  breed  admiration  then  credit.     But  such  are 
ye  gifts  yat  ye  living  God  hath  indued  hir  with-all,  that  225 
iooke  in  what  Arte  or  Language,, wit  or  learning,  vertue 


LVLV  49 

or  beautie,  any  one  hath  particularly  excelled  most,  she 
onely  hath  generally  exceeded  every  one  in  al,  insomuch 
that  there  is  nothing  to  bee  added,  that  either  man  would 
w;ish  in  a  woman,  or  God  doth  give  to  a  creature.  230 

II  let  passe  hir  skill  in  Musicke,  hir  knowledg[e]  in 
al[l]  ye  other  sciences,  when  as  I  feare  least  by  my  sim- 
plicity I  shoulde  make  them  lesse  than  they  are,  in  seek- 
ing to  shew  howe  great  they  are,  unlesse  I  were  praising 
hir  in  the  gallerie  of  Olympia,  where  gyving  forth  one  235 
worde,  I  might  heare  seven. 

But  all  these  graces  although  they  be  to  be  wondered 
at,  yet  hir  politique  governement,  hir  prudent  counsaile, 
hir  zeale  to  religion,  hir  clemencie  to  those  that  submit, 
hir  stoutnesse  to  those  that  threaten,  so  farre  exceede  all  240 
other  vertues  that  they  are  more  easie  to  be  mervailed  at 
then  imitated. 

Two  and  twentie  yeares  hath  she  borne  the  sword 
with  such  justice  that  neither  offenders  coulde  complaine 
of  rigour,  nor  the  innocent  of  wrong,  yet  so  tempered  245 
with  mercie,  as  malefactours  have  beene  sometimes  par- 
doned upon  hope  of  grace,  and  the  injured  requited  to 
ease  their  griefe,  insomuch  that  in  ye  whole  course  of  hir 
glorious  raigne,  it  coulde  never  be  saide  that  either  the 
poore  were  oppressed  without  remedie,  or  the  guiltie  re-  250 
pressed  without  cause,  bearing  this  engraven  in  hir  noble 
heart,  that  justice  without  mercie  were  extreame  injurie, 
and  pittie  without  equitie  plaine  partialitie,  and  that  it 
is  as  great  tyranny  not  to  mitigate  Laws  as  iniquitie  to 
breake  them.  255 

Hir  care  for  the  flourishing  of  the  Gospell  hath  wel 
appeared,  whenas  neither  the  curses  of  the  Pope  (which 
are  blessings  to  good  people),  nor  the  threatenings  of 
kings  (which  are  perillous  to  a  Prince),  nor  the  perswa- 


50  FROM  CHAUCER   TO  ARNOLD 

sions  of  Papists  (which  are  honny  to  the  mouth),  could  260 
either  feare  hir,  or  allure  hir,  to  violate  the  holy  league 
contracted  with  Christ,  or  to  maculate  the  blood  of  the 
aunciente  Lambe,  whiche  is  Christ.     But  alwayes  con- 
staunt  in  the  true  fayth,  she  hath  to  the  exceeding  joye 
of  hir  subjectes,  to  the  unspeakeable  comforte  of  hir  265 
soule,  to  the  great  glorye  of  God,  establyshed  that  relig- 
ion, the  mayntenance  where-of  shee  rather  seeketh  to 
confirme  by  fortitude,  then  leave  off  for  feare,  knowing 
that  there  is  nothing  that  smelleth  sweeter  to  the  Lorde 
then  a  sounde  spirite,  which  neyther  the  hostes  of  the  270 
ungodlye,  nor  the  horror  of  death,  can  eyther  remo[o]ve 
or  move. 

This  Gospell  with  invincible  courage,  with  rare  con- 
stancie,  with   hotte  zeale  shee  hath  maintained  in  hir 
owne  countries  with-out  chaunge,  and  defended  against  275 
all  kingdomes  that  sought  chaunge,  in-somuch  that  all 
nations  rounde  about  hir,  threatninge  alteration,  shaking 
swordes,  throwing  fyre,  menacing  famyne,  murther,  de- 
struction, desolation,  shee  onely  hath  stoode  like  a  Lampe 
[Lambe]  on  the  toppe  of  a  hill,  not  fearing  the  blastes  of  280 
the  sharpe  winds,  but  trusting   in  his   providence  that 
rydeth  uppon  the  winges  of  the   foure  windes.     Next 
foUoweth  the  love  shee  beareth  to  hir  subjectes,  who  no 
lesse  tendereth  them  then  the  apple  of  hir  owne  eye, 
shewing  hir  selfe  a  mother  to  the  a[f]flicted,  a  Phisi-285 
tion  to  the  sicke,  a  Sovereigne  and  mylde  Govemesse 
to  all. 

Touchinge  hir  Magnanimitie,  hir  Majestie,  hir  Estate 
royall,  there  was  neyther  Alexander,  nor  Galba  the  Em- 
perour,  nor  any  that  might  be  compared  with  hir.  290 

This  is  she  that,  resembling  the  noble  Queene  of 
Navarr\_e\  useth  the  Marigolde  for  hir  flower,  which 


LYLY  51 

at  the  rising  of  the  Sunne  openeth  hir  leaves,  and  at  the 
setting  shutteth  them,  referring  all  hir  actions  and  endev- 
ours  to  him  that  ruleth  the  Sunne.  This  is  that  CcBsarz^ 
that  first  bound  the  Crocodile  to  the  Palme  tree,  bridling 
those  that  sought  to  raine  [rayne]  hir  :  This  is  that  good 
Pelican  that  to  feede  hir  people  spareth  not  to  rend  hir 
owne  personne  :  This  is  that  mightie  Eagle,  that  hath 
throwne  dust  into  the  eyes  of  the  Hart,  that  went  about  300 
to  worke  destruction  to  hir  subjectes,  into  whose  wings 
although  the  blinde  Beetle  would  have  crept,  and  so 
being  carryed  into  hir  nest,  destroyed  hir  young  ones,  yet 
hath  she  with  the  vertue  of  hir  fethers,  consumed  that 
flye  in  his  owne  fraud.  305 

She  hath  exiled  the  Swallowe  that  sought  to  spoyle 
the  Grashopper,  and  given  bytter  Almondes  to  the  rav- 
enous Wolves  that  ende[a]vored  to  devoure  the  silly 
Lambes,  burning  even  with  the  breath  of  hir  mouth  like 
ye  princ[e]ly  Stag,  the  serpents  yat  wer[e]  engendred3io 
by  the  breath  of  the  huge  Elephant,  so  that  now  all  hir 
enimies  are  as  whist  as  the  bird  Attagen,  who  never  sing- 
eth  any  tune  after  she  is  taken,  nor  they  beeing  so  over- 
taken. 

But  whether  do  I  wade,  Lad  yes,  as  one  forgetting  him-  315 
selfe,  thinking  to  sound  the  dep[t]h  of  hir  vertues  with  a 
few  fadomes,  when  there  is  no  bottome  :  For  I  knowe  not 
how  it  commeth  to  passe  that,  being  in  this  Laborinth,  I 
may  sooner  loose  my  selfe  then  finde  the  ende. 

Beholde,  Ladyes,  in  this  Glasse  a  Queene,  a  woeman,  320 
a  Virgin  in  all  giftes  of  the  bodye,  in  all  graces  of  the 
minde,  in  all  perfection  of  eyther,  so  farre  to  excell  all 
men,  that  I  know  not  whether  I  may  thinke  the  place 
too  badde  for  hir  to  dwell  amonge  men. 

To  talke  of  other  thinges  in  that  Court,  wer[e]   to  325 


52  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

bring  Egges  after  apples,  or  after  the  setting  out  of  the 
Sunne,  to  tell  a  tale  of  a  Shaddow. 

But  this  I  saye,  that  all  ofiyces  are  looked  to  with  great 
care,  that  vertue  is  embraced  of  all,  vice  hated,  religion 
daily  encreased,  manners  reformed,  that  who  so  seeth  the  330 
place  there,  will  thinke  it  rather  a  Church  for  divine  ser- 
vice, then  a  Court  for  Princes  delight. 

This  is  the  Glasse,  Ladies,  wher-in  I  woulde  have  you 
gase,  wher-in  I  tooke  my  whole  delight ;  imitate  the 
I-^dyes  in  England,  amende  your  manners,  rubbe  out  335 
the  wrinckles  of  the  minde,  and  be  not  curious  about 
the  weams  in  the  face.  As  for  their  Elizabeth,  sith  you 
can  neyther  sufficiently  mervaile  at  hir,  nor  I  prayse  hir, 
let  us  all  pray  for  hir,  which  is  the  onely  duetie  we  can 
performe,  and  the  greatest  that  we  can  proffer.  340 

Yours  to  commaund 

EUPHUES. 


SIR    PHILIP   SIDNEY  rXftli^f*^ 

(»554-i586) 

ARCADIA— \ 

TO   MY   DEAR   LADY   AND   SISTER,  THE  COUNTESS   OF  PEMBROK^ 

Here  now  have  you,  most  dear,  and  most  worthy  to  be 
most  dear,  Lady,  this  idle  work  of  mine,  which  I  fear, 
like  the  spider's  web,  will  be  thought  fitter  to  be  swept 
away  than  worn  to  any  other  purpose.  For  my  part,  in 
very  truth,  as  the  cruel  fathers  among  the  Greeks  were  s 
wont  to  do  to  the  babes  they  would  not  foster,  I  could 
well  find  in  my  heart  to  cast  out  in  some  desert  of  for- 
getfulness  this  child,  which  I  am  loth  to  father.  But  you 
desired  me  to  do  it ;  and  your  desire,  to  my  heart,  is  an 
absolute  commandment.  Now  it  is  done  only  for  you,  lo 
only  to  you.  If  you  keep  it  to  yourself,  or  to  such  friends 
who  will  weigh  errors  in  the  balance  of  good  will,  I  hope, 
for  the  father's  sake,  it  will  be  pardoned,  perchance 
made  much  of,  though  in  itself  it  have  deformities ;  for, 
indeed,  for  severer  eyes  it  is  not,  being  but  a  trifle,  and  15 
that  triflingly  handled.  Your  dear  self  can  best  witness 
the  manner,  being  done  in  loose  sheets  of  paper,  most  of 
it  in  your  presence,  the  rest  by  sheets  sent  unto  you  as 
fast  as  they  were  done.  In  sum,  a  young  head,  not  so 
well  staged  as  I  would  it  were,  and  shall  be  when  God  20 
will,  having  many,  many  fancies  begotten  in  it,  if  it  had 
not  been  in  some  way  delivered,  would  have  grown  a 

53 


54  FROM   CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

monster,  and  more  sorry  might  I  be  that  they  come  in 

than  that  they  gat  out.     ButJais_chief  safety  shall  be  the 

not  walking  abroad,  and  his  chief  protection  the  bearing  25 

the  livery  of  your  name,  which,  if  much  goodwill  do  not 

deceive  me,  is  worthy  to  be  a  sanctuary  for  a  greater 

offender.     This  say  I  because  I  know  the  virtue  so ;  and 

this  say  I  because  it  will  be  ever  so.     Read  it,  then,  at 

your  idle  times,  and  the  follies  your  good  judgment  will  30 

find  in  it  blame  not,  but  laugh  at ;  and  so,  looking  for 

no  better  stuff  than,  as  in  a  haberdasher's  shop,  glasses 

or  feathers,  you  will  continue  to  love  the  writer,  who 

doth  exceedingly  love  you,  and  most,  most  heartily  prays 

you  may  long  Uve  to  a  principal  ornament  to  the  family  35 

of  the  Sidneys. 

Your  loving  Brother 

Philip  Sidney. 


THE  COUNTESS  OF  PEMBROKE'S  ARCADIA 

WRITTEN  BV  SIR  PHILIP  SIDNEY 

Sirephon  and  Clatiis 

It  was  in  the  time  that  the  Earth  begins  to  put  on  heD 
new  apparel  against  the  approach  of  her  lover,  and  thaf 
the  sun  running  a  most  even  course  becomes  an  indiffer- 
ent arbiter  between  the  night  and  the  day,  when  the 
hopeless  shepherd  ^trepjion  was  come  to  the  lands  which 
lie  against  the  island  of  Cithera,  where,  viewing  the  place 
with  a  heavy  kind  of  delight,  and  sometimes  casting  his 
eyes  to  the  isleward,  he  called  his  friendly  rival  the  pastor 
^lauis  unto  him ;  and  setting  first  down  in  his  darkened 
countenance  a  doleful  copy  of  what  he  would  speak,  "  O 
my  Clauis,"  said  he,  "hither  we  are  now  come  to  pay  the 


SIDNEY  55 

rent  for  which  we  are  so  called  unto  by  ever-busy  re-"  \-^'W^^^. 
Qiembrance ;  Vemembrance,  restless  remembrance,  which 
claims  not  only  this  duty  of  us  but  first  will  have  us  for- 
get ourselves,  fl  pray  you,  when  we  were  amid  our  flock,  15      ) 
and  that,  of  other  ^shepherds,  some  were  running  after 
their  sheep,  strayed  beyond  their  bounds ;  some  delight- 
ing their  eyes  with  seeing  them  nibble  upon  the  short  and         -. 
sweet  grass,  some  medicining  their  sick  ewes,  some  set-      ■} 
ting  a  bell  for  an  ensign  of  a  sl^eepish  squadron,  some  2cjr 
with  more  leisure  inventing  nex^'gatiies  of  exercising  their  -  d* 
bodies  and  sporting  their  wits,  -r^  di^Tremembrance  grant  .  C! — - 
us  any  holiday,  either  for  pastime  or  devotiorynay  either     ^ 
for  necessary  food  or  natural  rest,  but  thatslifl  it  forced    ^ 
our  thoughts  to  work  upon  this  place,  where  we  last,-*—  25^ 
alas,  that  the  word  '  last '  should  so  long  last,  —  did  grace 


^jes  |her  ever  flourishing  beauty ;  did  it  not  still  cry 
tiin   us :    '  Ah,  you  base-minded  wretches  !  are  your 


ju  \\_r  our^ 
within 

thoughts  so  deeply  be  mired  in  the  trade  of  ordinary  world- 
lings as,  for  respect  of  gain  some  paltry  wool  may  yield  30 
you,  to  let  so  much  time  pass  without  knowing  perfectly 
hej"  ejtate,  especially  in  so  troublesome  a  season ;  to 
leave  that  shore  unsaluted  from  whence  you  may  see  to 
the  island  where  she  dwelleth ;  to  leave  these  steps  un- 
kissed  wherein  Urania,  printed  the  farewell  of  all  beauty  ? '  35 
Well,  then, ,  remembrance  commanded,  we  obeyed,  and 
here  weTinid,  that  as  our  remembrance  came  ever  clothed 
unto  us  as  in  the  form  of  this  place,  so  this  place  gives 
new  heat  to  the  fever  of  our  languishing  remembrance. 
JYonder,  my  Clauis,  Urania  lighted ;  the  very  horse  me- 
thought  bewailed  to  be  so  disburdened ;  and  as  for  thee, 
poor  Clauis,  when  thou  wentest  to  help  her  down,  and 
saw  reverence  and  desire  so  divide  thee  that  thou  didst  at 
one  instant  both  blush  and  quake,  and  instead  of  bearing 


40 


$6  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

her   wert  ready  to  fall  down  thyself.     There  she  sate,  45 
vouchsafing  my  cloak  (then  most  gorgeous)  under  her ; 
at  yonder  rising  of  the  ground  she  turned  herself,  looking 
back  toward  her  wonted  abode,  and  because  of  her  part- 
ing, bearing  much  sorrow  in  her  eyes,  the  lightsoraeness 
whereof  had  yet  so  natural  a  cheerfulness  as  it  made  even  50 
sorrow  seem  to  smile  ;  at  that  turning  she  spake  to  us  all, 
opening  her  cherry  lips,  and,  Lord  !  how  greedily  mine 
ears  did  feed  upon  the  sweet  words  she  uttered  !    And 
here  she  laid  her  hand  over  thine  eyes  when  she  saw  the 
tears  springing  in  them,  as  if  she  would  conceal  them  55 
from  other  and  yet  herself  feel  some  of  thy  sorrow.     But 
woe  is  me  !   Yonder,  yonder,  did  she  put  her  foot  into  the 
boat,  at  that  instant,  as  it  were,  dividing  her  heavenly 
beauty  between  the  earth  and  the  sea.     But  when  she 
was  embarked  did  you  not  mark  how  the  winds  whistled,  60 
and  the  seas  danced  for  joy ;  how  the  sails  did  swell  with 
pride,  and  all  because  they  had  Urania.    O  Urania,  blessed 
be  thou,  Urania,  the  sweetest  fairness  and  fairest  sweet- 
ness ! " 

With  that  word  his  voice  brake  so  with  sobbing  that  he  65 
could  say  no  further;  and  Clauis  thus  answered,  "Alas,  my 
Strephon,"  said  he,  "  what  needs  this  score  to  reckon  up 
only  our  losses?    What  doubt  is  there  but  that  the  sight  of 
this  place  doth  clear  our  thoughts  to  appear  at  the  Court 
of  Affection,  held  by  that  racking  steward  Remembrance  ?  70 
As  well  may  sheep  forget  to  fear  when  they  spy  wolves,  as 
we  can  miss  such  fancies,  when  we  see  any  place  made 
happy  by  her  treading.     Who  can  choose  that  saw  her 
but  think  where  she  stayed,  where  she  walked,  where  she 
turned,  where  she  spoke  ?    But  what  is  all  this  ?    Truly  no  75 
more  but,  as  this  place  served  us  to  think  of  those  things, 
so  those  things  serve  as  places  to  call  to  memory  more 


SIDNEY  57 

excellent  matters.  No,  no,  let  us  think  with  considera- 
tion, and  consider  with  acknowledging,  and  acknowledge 
with  admiration,  and  admire  with  love,  and  love  with  joy  80 
in  the  midst  of  all  woes ;  let  us  in  such  sort  think,  I  say, 
that  our  poor  eyes  were  so  enriched  as  to  behold,  and 
our  low  hearts  so  exalted  as  to  love,  a  maid  who  is 
such,  that  as  the  greatest  thing  in  the  world  can  show  is 
her  beauty,  so  the  least  thing  that  may  be  praised  in  her  85 
is  her  beauty.  Certainly  as  her  eyelids  are  more  pleasant 
to  behold  than  two  white  kids  climbing  up  a  fair  tree,  and 
browsing  on  his  tenderest  branches,  and  yet  are  nothing 
compared  to  the  day-shining  stars  contained  in  them ; 
and  as  her  breath  is  more  sweet  tlian  a  gentle  south-west  90 
wind,  which  comes  creeping  over  flowery  fields  and 
shadowed  waters  in  the  extreme  heat  of  summer,  and 
yet  is  nothing  compared  to  the  honey-flowing  speech  that 
breath  doth  carry,  —  no  more  all  that  our  eyes  can  see  of 
her,  —  though  when  they  have  seen  her,  what  else  they  95 
shall  ever  see  is  but  dry  stubble  after  clover-grass  —  is  to 
be  matched  with  the  flock  of  unspeakable  virtues  laid  up 
dehghtfully  in  that  best-builded  fold.  But,  indeed,  as  we 
can  better  consider  the  sun's  beauty  by  marking  how  he 
gilds  these  waters  and  mountains  than  by  looking  upon  his  100 
own  face,  too  glorious  for  our  weak  eyes  ;  so  it  may  be  our 
conceits  —  not  able  to  bear  her  sun-staining  excellency — 
will  better  weigh  it  by  her  work  upon  some  meaner  object 
employed.  And,  alas,  who  can  better  witness  that  than 
we,  whose  experience  is  grounded  upon  feeling?  Hath  105 
not  the  only  love  of  her  made  us,  being  silly  ignorant  shep- 
herds, raise  up  our  thoughts  above  the  ordinary  level  of 
the  world,  so  as  great  clerks  do  not  disdain  our  confer- 
ence ?  Hath  not  the  desire  to  seem  worthy  in  her  eyes 
made  us,  when  others  were  sleeping,  to  sit  viewing  the  no 


58  FROM   CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

course  of  the  heavens ;  when  others  were  running  at 
base,  to  run  over  learned  writings ;  when  others  mark 
their  sheep,  we  to  mark  ourselves  ?  Hath  not  she  thrown 
reason  upon  our  desires,  and,  as  it  were,  given  eyes  unto 
Cupid?  Hath  in  any,  but  in  her,  love-fellowship  main- 115 
tained  friendship  between  rivals  and  beauty  taught  the 
beholders  chastity  ?  " 

Pamela  and  Philoclea 

His  wife  in  grave  matron-like  attire,  with  countenance 
and  gesture  suitable,  and  of  such  fairness,  being  in  the 
strength  of  her  age,  as,  if  her  daughters  had  not  been 
by,  might  with  just  price  have  purchased  admiration ; 
but  they  being  there,  it  was  enough  that  the  most  dainty  5 
eye  would  think  her  a  worthy  mother  of  such  children. 
The  fair  Pamela,  whose  noble  heart,  I  find,  doth  greatly 
disdain  that  the  trust  of  her  virtue  is  reposed  in  such  a 
lout's  hands  as  Dameta's,  had  yet,  to  show  an  obedience, 
taken  on  shepherdish  apparel,  which  was  but  of  russet  10 
cloth,  cut  after  their  fashion,  with  a  straight  body,  open- 
breasted,  the  nether  parts  full  of  plaits,  with  long  and 
wide  sleeves ;  but,  believe  me,  she  did  apparel  her  ap- 
parel, and  with  the  preciousness  of  her  body  make  it 
most  sumptuous.  Her  hair  at  the  full  length,  wound  15 
about  with  gold  lace,  only  by  the  comparison  to  show 
how  far  her  hair  doth  excel  in  color ;  betwixt  her  breasts 
there  hung  a  very  rich  diamond  set  between  a  black 
horn ;  the  word  I  have  since  read  is  this,  *  Yet  still  my- 
self.' And  thus  particularly  have  I  described  them,  20 
because  you  may  know  that  mine  eyes  are  not  so  partial 
but  that  I  marked  them  too. 

But  when  the  ornament  of  the  earth,  the  model  of 


SIDNEY  59 

•heaven,  the  triumph  of  nature,  the  hfe  of  beauty,  the 
queen  of  love,  young  Philoclea,  appeared,  in  her  nymph-  25 
Hke  apparel,  her  hair  (alas,  too  poor  a  word,  why  should 
I  not  rather  call  them  her  beams?)  drawn  up  into  a  net 
able  to  have  caught  Jupiter  when  he  was  in  the  form  of 
an  eagle,  her  body  (O  sweet  body  ! )  covered  with  a  light 
taffeta  garment,  with  the  caste  of  her  black  eyes,  black  30 
indeed,  whither  nature  so  made  them  that  we  might  be 
the  more  able  to  behold  and  bear  their  wonderful  shining, 
or  that  she,  goddess-like,  would  work  this  miracle  with 
herself,  in  giving  blackness  the  price  above  all  beauty,  — 
then,  I  say,  indeed  niethought  the  lilies  grew  pale  for  35 
envy,  the  roses  methought  blushed  to  see  sweeter  roses 
in  her  cheeks,  and  the  clouds  gave  place  that  the  heavens 
might  more  freely  smile  upon  her ;  at  the  least  the  clouds 
of  my  thoughts  quite  vanished,  and  my  sight,  then  more 
clear  and  forcible  than  ever,  was  so  fixed  there  that  I  40 
imagine  I  stood  like  a  well-wrought  image,  with  some  life 
in  show,  but  none  in  practice.     And  so  had  I  been  like 
enough,  to  have  stayed  long   time,   but   that   Gynecia, 
stepping  between  my  sight  and  the  only  Philoclea,  the 
change  of  object  made  me  recover  my  senses ;  so  that  I  45 
could  with  reasonable  good  manner  receive  the  salutation 
of  her   and  the    Princess   Pamela,  doing   them    yet  no 
further  reverence  than  one  princess  useth  to   another. 
But  when  I  came  to  the  never-enough  praised  Philoclea, 
I  could  not  but  fall  down  on  my  knees,  and  taking  by  50 
force  her  hand,  and  kissing  it,  I  must  confess  with  more 
than  womanly  ardency,   *  Divine  lady,'  said  I,  '  let  not 
the  world,  nor  these  great  princesses  marvel  to  see  me, 
contrary  to  my  manner,  do  this  special  honor  unto  you, 
since  all,  both  men  and  women,  do  owe  this  to  the  per-  55 
fection  of  your   beauty.'     But  she,  blushing  like  a  fair 


60  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

morning  in  May,  at  this  my  singularity,  and  causing  me 
to  rise,  '  Noble  lady,'  said  she,  *  it  is  no  marvel  to  see 
your  judgment  much  mistaken  in  my  beauty,  since  you 
begin  with  so  great  an  error  as  to  do  more  honor  unto  60 
me  than  to  them  to  whom  I  myself  owe  all  service.' 
'  Rather,'  answered  I,  with  a  bowed-down  countenance, 

*  that  shows  the  power  of  your  beauty,  which  forced  me 
to  do  such  an  error,  if  it  were  an  error.'  '  You  are  so 
well  acquainted,'  said  she,  sweetly,  most  sweetly  smiling,  65 

*  with  your  own  beauty,  that  it  makes  you  easily  fall  into 
the  discourse  of  beauty.'  *  Beauty  in  me  ? '  said  I,  truly 
sighing;  'alas  if  there  be  any,  it  is  in  my  eyes,  which 
your  blessed  presence  hath  imparted  into  them.' 


AN  APOLOGIE  FOR   POETRIE 
The  Poet 

Among  the  Romans  a  poet  was  called  vates^  which  is  as 
much  as  a  diviner,  foreseer,  or  prophet,  as  by  his  con- 
joined words,  vaticinium  and  vaticinari,  is  manifest ; 
so  heavenly  a  title  did  that  excellent  people  bestow  upon 
this  heart-ravishing  knowledge.  And  so  far  were  they 
carried  intb;  the  admiration  thereof,  that  they  thought  in 
the  chanceable  hitting  upon  any  such  verses  great  fore- 
tokens of  their  following  fortunes  were  placed ;  where- 
upon grew  the  word  of  Sortes  Virgiliana,  when_hy 
sudden  opening  Virgil's  book  they  hghted  upon  some 
verse  of  his  making.  Whereof  the  Histories  of  the  Em- 
perors' Lives  are  full :  as  of  Albinus,  the  governor  of  our 
island,  who  in  his  childhood  met  with  this  verse, 
Arma  kmens  (f^io,  nee  sat  ratiMnis  in  armis, 


6. 


SIDNEY  6r 

and  in  his  age  performed  it.  Although  it  were  a  very  15 
vain  and  godless  superstition,  as  also  it  was  to  think  that 
spirits  were  commanded  by  such  verses  —  whereupon 
this  word  charms,  derived  of  carmina,  cometh  —  so  yet 
serveth  it  to  show  the  great  reverence  those  wits  were 
held_  in,  and  altogether  not  without  ground,  since  both  20 
the  oracles  of  Delphos  and  , Sibylla's  prophecies  were 
wholly  delivered  in  verses ;  for  that  some  exquisite  ob- 
serving of  number  and  measure  in  words,  and  that  high- 
flying liberty  of  conceit  proper  to  the  poet,  did  seem  to 
have  some  divine  force  in  it.  25 

And  may  I  not  presume  a  little  further  to  show  the 
reasonableness  of  this  word  vates,  and  say  that  the  holy 
David's  Psalms  are  a  divine  poem  ?  If  I  do,  I  shall  not 
do  it  without  the  testimony  of  great  learned  men,  both 
ancient  and  modem.  But  even  the  name  of  Psalms  will  30 
speak  for  me,  which,  being  interpreted,  is  nothing  but 
Songs ;  then,  that  it  is  fully  written  in  metre,  as  all 
learned  Hebricians  agree,  although  the  rules  be  not  yet 
fully  found  \  lastly  and  principally,  his  handling  his  proph- 
ecy, which  is  merely  poetical.  For  what  else  is  the  awak-  35 
ing  his  musical  instruments,  the  ofteti  and  free  changing 
of  persons,  his  notable  prosopopoeias,  when  he  maketh 
you,  as  it  were,  see  God  coming  in  His  majesty,  his  tell- 
ing of  the  beasts'  joyfulness  and  hills'  leaping,  but  a 
heavenly  poesy,  wherein  almost  he  showeth  himself  a  40 
passionate  lover  of  that  unspeakable  and  everlasting 
beauty  to  be  seen  by  the  eyes  of  the  mind,  only  cleared 
by  faith?  But  truly  now  having  named  him,  I  fear  I 
seem  to  profane  that  holy  name,  applying  it  to  poetry, 
which  is  among  us  thrown  down  to  so  ridiculous  an  esti-  45 
mation.  But  they  that  with  quiet  judgments  will  look 
a  little  deeper  into  it,  shall  find  the  end  and  working  of 


62  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

it  such  as,  being  rightly  appHed,  deserveth  not  to  be 
scourged  out  of  the  church  of  God. 

But  now  let  us  see  how  the  Greeks  named   it  and  50 
how  they  deemed  of  it.     The  Greeks  called  him  ??roii)r>7v,'''^^^ 
which  name  hath,  as  the  most  excellent,  gone  through 
other  languages.     It  cometh  of  this  word  moiCw,  which 
is  "  to  make  "  ;  wherein  I  know  not  whether  by  luck  or 
wisdom  we   Englishmen  have  met  with  the  Greeks  in  55 
caUing  him  a  maker.    Which  name  how  high  and  incom- 
parable a  title  it  is,  I  had  rather  were  known  by  mark- 
ing the   scope   of  other   sciences   than    by  any  partial 
allegation.     There  is  no  art  delivered  unto  mankind  that 
hath  not  the  works  of  nature  for  his  principal  object,  60 
without  which  they  could  not  consist,  and  on  which  they 
so  depend  as  they  become  actors  and  players,  as  it  were, 
of  what  nature  will  have  set  forth.     So  doth  the  astron- 
omer look  upon  the  stars,  and,  by  that  he  seeth,  set  down 
what  order  nature  hath  taken  therein.    So  do  the  geome-  65 
trician  and  arithmetician  in  their  divers  sorts  of  quantities. 
So  doth  the  musician  in  times  tell  you  which  by  nature 
agree,  which  not.     The  natural  philosopher  thereon  hath 
his  name,  and  the  moral  philosopher  standeth  upon  the 
natural  virtues,  vices,  and  passions  of  man  ;  and  "  follow  "jo 
nature,"  saith   he,  "  therein,  and   thou  shalt  not  err." 
The  lawyer  saith  what  men  have  determined,  the  his- 
torian what  men  have  done.     The  grammarian  speaketh 
only  of  the  rules  of  speech,  and  the  rhetorician  and  logi- 
cian, considering  what  in  nature  will  soonest  prove  and  75 
persuade,  thereon  give  artificial  rules,  which  still  are  com- 
passed within  the  circle  of  a  question,  according  to  the 
proposed  matter.     The  physician  weigheth  the  nature  of 
man's  body,  and  the  nature  of  things  helpful  or  hurt- 
ful unto  it.     And  the  metaphysic,  though  it  be  in  the  80 


SIDNEY  63 

second  and  abstract  notions,  and  therefore  be  counted 
supernatural,  yet  doth  he,  indeed,  build  upon  the  depth 
of  nature. 

Only  the  poet,  disdaining  to  be  tied  to  any  such  sub- 
jection, lifted  up  with  the  vigor  of  his  own  invention,  85 
doth  grow,  in   effect,  into   another   nature,   in   making 
things  either  better  than  nature  bringeth  forth,  or,  quite 
anew,  forms  such  as  never  were  in  nature,  as  the  heroes, 
demi-gods,  cyclops,  chimeras,  furies,  and  such  like  ;  so 
as  he  goeth  hand  in  hand  with   nature,  not  enclosed  90 
within  the  narrow  warrant  of  her  gifts,  but  freely  rang- 
ing within  the  zodiac  of  his  own  wit.     Nature  never  set 
forth-  the  earth  in  so  rich  tapestry  as  divers  poets  have 
done  ;  neither  with  pleasant  rivers,  fruitful  trees,  sweet- 
smelling  flowers,  nor  whatsoever  else  may  make  the  too-  95 
much-loved  earth  more  lovely ;  her  world  is  brazen,  the 
poets  only  deliver  a  golden. 

But  let  those  things  alone,  and  go  to  man  —  for  whom 
as  the  other  things  are,  so  it  seemeth  in  him  her  utter- 
most cunning  is  employed  —  and  know  whether  she  have  100 
brought  forth  so  true  a  lover  as  Theagenes ;  so  constant    v 
a  friend  as  Pylades ;  so  valiant  a  man  as  Orlando  ;  so 
right  a   prince   as   Xenophon's   Cyrus ;    so   excellent  a 
man  every  way  as  Virgil's  ^'Eneas?     Neither  let  this  be 
jestingly  conceived,  because  the  works  of  the  one  be  105 
essential,  the  other  in  imitation  or  fiction  ;  for  any  under- 
standing knoweth  the  skill  of  each  artificer  standeth  in 
that  idea,  or  fore-conceit  of  the  work,  and  not  in  the 
work  itself.     And  that  the  poet  hath  that  idea  is  mani- 
fest, by  delivering  them  forth  in  such  excellency  as  he  no 
hath  imagined  them.     Which  dehvering  forth,  also,  is 
not  wholly  imaginative,  as  we  are  wont  to  say  by  them 
that  build  castles  in  the  air ;  but  so  far  substantially  it 


64  FROM   CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

worketh,  not  only  to  make  a  Cyrus,  which  had  been  but 
a  particular  excellency,  as  nature  might  have  done,  but  115 
to  bestow  a  Cyrus  upon  the  world  to  make  many  Cyruses, 
if  they  will  learn  aright  why  and  how  that  maker  made 
him.     Neither  let  it  be  deemed  too  saucy  a  comparison 
to  balance  the  highest  point  of  man's  wit  with  the  efficacy 
of  nature ;  but  rather  give  right  honor  to  the  Heavenly  120 
Maker  of  that  maker,  who,  having  made  man  to  His  own 
likeness,  set  him  beyond  and  over  all  the  works  of  that 
second  nature.    Which  in  nothing  he  showeth  so  much  as 
in  poetry,  when  with  the  force  of  a  divine  breath  he 
bringeth  things  forth  far  surpassing  her  doings,  with  no  125 
small  argument  to  the  incredulous  of  that  first  accursed 
fall  of  Adam,  —  since  our  erected  wit  maketh  us  know 
what  perfection  is,  and  yet  our  infected  will  keepeth  us 
from  reaching  unto  it.     But  these  arguments  will  by  few 
be  understood,  and  by  fewer  granted ;  thus  much  I  hope  130 
will  be  given  me,  that  the  Greeks  with  some  probability 
of  reason  gave  him  the  name  above  all  names  of  learn- 
ing. 

Since,  then,  poetry  is  of  all  human  learnings  the  most 
ancient  and  of  most  fatherly  antiquity,  as  from  whence  135 
other  learnings  have  taken  their  beginnings ;  since  it  is  so 
universal  that  no  learned  nation  doth  despise  it,  nor  bar- 
barous nation  is  without  it ;  since  both  Roman  and  Greek 
gave  divine  names  unto  it,  the  one  of  "prophesying,"  the 
other  "  making,"  and  that  indeed  that  name  of  "  making  "  140 
is  fit  for  him,  considering  that  whereas  other  arts  retain 
themselves  within  their  subject,  and  receive,  as  it  were, 
their  being  from  it,  the  poet  only  bringeth  his  own  stuff, 
and  doth  not  learn  a  conceit  out  of  a  matter,  but  maketh 
matter  for  a  conceit ;  since  neither  his  description  nor  145 
his  end  containeth  any  evil,  the  thing  described  cannot  be 


^  SIDNEY  65 

evil ;  since  his  effects  be  so  good  as  to  teach  goodness, 
and  delight  the  learners  of  it ;  since  therein — namely  in 
moral  doctrine,  the  chief  of  all  knowledges — he  doth  not 
only  far  pass  the  historian,  but  for  instructing  is  well  nigh  150 
comparable  to  the  philosopher,  and  for  moving  leaveth 
him  behind  him  ;  since  the  Holy  Scripture,  wherein  there 
is  no  uncleanness,  hath  whole  parts  in  it  poetical,  and 
that  even  our  Saviour  Christ  vouchsafed  to  use  the  flowers 
of  it ;  since  all  his  kinds  are  not  only  in  their  united  forms,  155 
but  in  their  several  dissections  fully  commendable ;  I 
think,  and  think  I  think  rightly,  the  laurel  crown  ap- 
pointed for  triumphant  captains  doth  worthily,  of  all  other 
learnings,  honor  the  poet's  triumph. 


^isTROTHEL  AND  STELLA 


This  night,  while  sleep  begins  with  heavy  wings 
To  hatch  mine  eyes,  and  that  urtbitted  thought 


Doth  fall  to  stray,  and  my  chief  powers  are  brought.         t 

To  leave  the  sceptre  of  all  subject  things  ;  .■   vk>-*-«-CiA»v-VVA/|»^' 

The  first  that  straight  my  fancy's  error  brings  5 

Unto  my  mind  is  Stella's  image,  wrought 

By  Love's  own  self,  but  with  so  curious  drought 

That  she,  methinks,  not  only  shines  but  sings. 

I  start,  look,  hark  ;  but  Avhat  in  closed-up^  sense 

Was  held,  in  opened  sense  it  flies  away,  10 

Leaving  me  nought  but  wailing  eloquence. 

I,  seeing  better  sights  in  sight's  decay, 

Call'd  it  anew,  and  wooed  Sleep  again  ; 

But  him,  her  host,  that  unkind  guest  had  slain. 

F 


i3.*K 


66  FROM  CHAUCER    TO   ARXOLD 

( I  Come,  Sleep  !  O  Sleep,  the  certain  knot  of  peace, 

^he  baiting-place  of  wit,  the  balm  of  woe, 
The  poor  man's  wealth,  the  prisoner's  release, 
Th'  indifferent  judge  between  the  high  and  low ; 
With  shield  of  proof  shield  me  from  out  the  press 
Of  those  fierce  darts  Despair  at  me  doth  throw  : 

0  make  in  me  those  civil  wars  to  cease  : 

1  will  good  tribute  pay,  if  thou  do  so. ' 

Take  thou  of  me  smooth  pillows,  sweetest  bed, 
A  chamber  deaf  to  noise  and  blind  to  light, 
A  rosy  garland  and  a  weary  head  : 
And  if  these  things,  as  being  thine  in  right, 
Move  not  thy  heavy  grace,  thou  shalt  in  me, 
Livelier  than  elsewhere,  Stella's  image  see. 

When  I  was  forced  from  Stella  ever  dear  — 
Stella,  food  of  my  thoughts,  heart  of  my  heart  — 
Stella,  whose  eyes  make  all  my  tempests  clear  — 
By  Stella's  laws  of  duty  to  depart ; 
Alas,  I  found  that  she  with  me  did  smart ; 
I  saw  that  tears  did  in  her  eyes  appear ; 
I  saw  that  sighs  her  sweetest  lips  did  part, 
And  her  sad  words  my  sadded  sense  did  hear. 
For  me,  'Ji  wept  to  see  pearls  scattered  so  ;[ 
I  sighed  her  sighs,  and  wailed  for  her  woe ; 
Yet  swam  in  joy,  such  love  in  her  was  seen. 
Thus,  while  th'  effect  most  bitter  was  to  me. 
And  nothing  then  the  cause  more  sweet  could  be, 
I  had  been  vexed,  if  vexed  I  had  not  been. 

Stella,  think  not  that  I  by  verse  seek  fame, 

Who  seek,  who  hope,  who  love,  who  live  but  thee ; 


SIDNEY  67 

Thine  eyes  ray  pride,  thy  lips  mine  history : 

If  thou  praise  not,  all  other  praise  is  shame. 

Nor  so  ambitious  am  I,  as  to  frame  5 

A  nest  for  my  young  praise  in  laurel  tree  : 

In  truth,  I  swear  I  wish  not  there  should  be 

Graved  in  my  epitaph  a  Poet's  name. 

Nor,  if  I  would,  could  I  just  title  make, 

That  any  laud  thereof  to  me  should  grow,  10 

Without  my  plumes  from  others'  wings  I  take  : 

For  nothing  from  my  wit  or  will  doth  flow, 

Since  all  my  words  thy  beauty  doth  endite, 

And  love  doth  hold  my  hand,  and  makes  me  write. 

Stella,  since  thou  so  right  a  princess  art 

Of  all  the  powers  which  life  bestows  on  me, 

That  ere  by  them  ought  undertaken  be, 

They  first  resort  unto  that  sovereign  part ; 

Sweet,  for  a  while  give  respite  to  my  heart,  5 

Which  pants  as  though  it  still  should  leap  to  thee : 

And  on  my  thoughts  give  thy  lieutenancy 

To  this  great  cause,  which  needs  both  use  and  art. 

And  as  a  queen,  who  from  her  presence  sends 

Whom  she  employs,  dismiss  from  thee  my  wit,  to 

Till  it  have  wrought  what  thy  own  will  attends, 

On  servants'  shame  oft  masters'  blame  doth  sit: 

O  let  not  fools  in  me  thy  works  reprove, 

And  scorning  say,  '  See  what  it  is  to  love ! ' 


BALLADS 
(?) 

SIR   PATRICK   SPENS 

[This  ballad  is  a  confused   echo  of  the  Scotch  expedition  which 
should  have  brought  the  Maid  of  Norway  to  Scotland,  about  1285.] 

The  king  sits  in  Dunfermline  town, 
Drinking  the  blude-red  wine  ; 

*  O  whare  will  I  get  a  skeely  skipper, 

To  sail  this  new  ship  of  mine  ! ' 

O  up  and  spake  an  eldern  knight,  5 

Sat  at  the  king's  right  knee,  — 

*  Sir  Patrick  Spens  is  the  best  sailor, 

That  ever  sailed  the  sea.' 

Our  king  has  written  a  braid  letter. 

And  seal'd  it  with  his  hand,  10 

And  sent  it  to  Sir  Patrick  Spens, 
Was  walking  on  the  strand. 

*To  Noroway,  to  Noroway, 

To  Noroway  o'er  the  faem  ; 
The  king's  daughter  of  Noroway  15 

'Tis  thou  maun  bring  her  hame.' 

The  first  word  that  Sir  Patrick  read, 

Sae  loud  loud  laughed  he  ; 
The  neist  word  that  Sir  Patrick  read, 

The  tear  blinded  his  e'e.  20 

68 


BALLADS  69 

*  O  wha  is  this  has  done  this  deed, 

And  tauld  the  king  o'  me, 
To  send  us  out,  at  this  time  of  the  year, 
To  sail  upon  the  sea  ? 

*  Be  it  wind,  be  it  weet,  be  it  hail,  be  it  sleet,       25 

Our  ship  must  sail  the  faem ; 
The  king's  daughter  of  Noroway, 
'Tis  we  must  fetch  her  hame.' 

They  hoysed  their  sails  on  Monenday  morn, 
Wi'  a'  the  speed  they  may ;  30 

They  hae  landed  in  Noroway, 
Upon  a  Wodensday. 

They  hadna  been  a  week,  a  week, 

In  Noroway,  but  twae, 
When  that  the  lords  o'  Noroway  35 

Began  aloud  to  say, — 

*  Ye  Scottishmen  spend  a'  our  king's  goud, 

And  a'  our  queenis  fee.' 

*  Ye  lie,  ye  lie,  ye  liars  loud  ! 

Fu'  loud  I  hear  ye  lie.  40 

*  For  I  brought  as  much  white  monie, 

As  gane  my  men  and  me, 
And  I  brought  a  half-fou  o'  gude  red  goud, 
Out  o'er  the  sea  wi'  me. 

'  Make  ready,  make  ready,  my  merrymen  a' !       45 
Our  gude  ship  sails  the  mom.' 

*  Now,  ever  alake,  my  master  dear, 

I  fear  a  deadly  storm  ! 


JO  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

*  I  saw  the  new  moon,  late  yestreen, 

Wi'  the  auld  moon  in  her  arm ;  50 

And,  if  we  gang  to  sea,  master, 
.  I  fear  we'll  come  to  harm.' 

They  hadna  sailed  a  league,  a  league, 

A  league  but  barely  three, 
When  the  lift  grew  dark,  and  the  wind  blew  loud,     55 

And  gurly  grew  the  sea. 

The  ankers  brak,  and  the  topmasts  lap, 

It  was  sic  a  deadly  storm  ; 
And  the  waves  cam  o'er  the  broken  ship, 

Till  a'  her  sides  were  torn.  60 

*  O  where  will  I  get  a  gude  sailor. 

To  take  my  helm  in  hand, 
Till  I  get  up  to  the  tall  top-mast, 
To  see  if  I  can  spy  land  ? ' 

*  O  here  am  I,  a  sailor  gude,  65 

To  take  the  helm  in  hand, 
Till  you  go  up  to  the  tall  top-mast ; 
But  I  fear  you'll  ne'er  spy  land.' 

He  hadna  gane  a  step,  a  step, 

A  step  but  barely  ane,  70 

When  a  bout  flew  out  of  our  goodly  ship. 

And  the  salt  sea  it  came  in. 

*  Gae,  fetch  a  web  o'  the  silken  claith, 

Another  o'  the  twine, 
And  wap  them  into  our  ship's  side,  75 

And  let  na  the  sea  come  in.' 


BALLADS  yi 

They  fetched  a  web  o'  the  silken  claith, 

Another  of  the  twine, 
And  they  wapped  them  round  that  gude  ship's  side, 

But  still  the  sea  came  in.'  80 

O  laith,  laith,  were  our  gude  Scots  lords 

To  weet  their  cork-heel'd  shoon  ! 
But  lang  or  a'  the  play  was  play'd, 

They  wat  their  hats  aboon. 

And  mony  was  the  feather-bed,  85 

That  flattered  on  the  faem ; 
And  mony  was  the  gude  lord's  son. 

That  never  mair  cam  home. 

The  ladyes  wrang  their  fingers  white, 

The  maidens  tore  their  hair,  90 

A'  for  the  sake  of  their  true  loves ; 

For  them  they'll  see  na  mair. 

O  lang,  lang,  may  the  ladyes  sit, 

Wi'  their  fans  into  their  hand. 
Before  they  see  Sir  Patrick  Spens  95 

Come  sailing  to  the  strand  ! 

And  lang,  lang,  may  the  maidens  sit, 

Wi'  their  goud  kaims  in  their  hair, 
A'  waiting  for  their  own  dear  loves  ! 

For  them  they'll  see  na  mair.  10a 

O  forty  miles  off  Aberdeen, 

'Tis  fifty  fathoms  deep. 
And  there  lies  gude  Sir  Patrick  Spens, 

Wi'  the  Scots  lords  at  his  feet. 


72  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 


THE   DOUGLAS   TRAGEDY 

[This  ballad  exists  in  Denmark,  and  in  other  European  countries. 
The  Scotch  have  localised  it,  and  point  out  Blackhouse,  on  the  wild 
Douglas  Burn,  a  tributary  of  the  Yarrow,  as  the  scene  of  the  tragedy.] 

*  Rise  up,  rise  up,  now,  Lord  Douglas,'  she  says, 

'  And  put  on  your  armour  so  bright ; 
Let  it  never  be  said  that  a  daughter  of  thine 
Was  married  to  a  lord  under  night. 

*  Rise  up,  rise  up,  my  seven  bold  sons,  5 

And  put  on  your  armour  so  bright, 
And  take  better  care  of  your  youngest  sister, 
For  your  eldest's  awa  the  last  night' 

He's  mounted  her  on  a  milk-white  steed. 
And  himself  on  a  dapple  grey,  lo 

With  a  bugelet  horn  hung  down  by  his  side, 
And  lightly  they  rode  away. 

Lord  William  lookit  o'er  his  left  shoulder. 

To  see  what  he  could  see. 
And  there  he  spy'd  her  seven  brethren  bold,  15 

Come  riding  over  the  lee. 

*  Light  down,  light  down.  Lady  Marg'ret,'  he  said, 

*  And  hold  my  steed  in  your  hand. 
Until  that  against  your  seven  brothers  bold. 
And  your  father,  I  mak  a  stand.'  20 

She  held  his  steed  in  her  milk-white  hand. 

And  never  shed  one  tear. 
Until  that  she  saw  her  seven  brethren  fa'. 

And  her  father  hard  fighting,  who  loved  her  so  dear. 


BALLADS  73 

'  O  hold  your  hand,  Lord  William  ! '  she  said,  25 

*  For  your  strokes  they  are  wond'rous  sair ; 
True  lovers  I  can  get  many  a  ane, 

But  a  father  I  can  never  get  mair.' 

O  she  's  ta'en  out  her  handkerchief, 

It  was  o'  the  hoUand  sae  fine,  30 

And  aye  she  dighted  her  father's  bloody  wounds. 

That  were  redder  than  the  wine. 

*  O  chuse,  O  chuse,  Lady  Marg'ret,'  he  said, 

*  O  whether  will  ye  gang  or  bide  ?  ' 

'  I'll  gang,  I'll  gang,  Lord  William,'  she  said,  35 

'  For  ye  have  left  me  no  other  guide.' 

He's  lifted  her  on  a  milk-white  steed. 

And  himself  on  a  dapple  grey. 
With  a  bugelet  horn  hung  down  by  his  side, 

They  slowly  baith  rade  away.  40 

O  they  rade  on,  and  on  they  rade. 

And  a'  by  the  light  of  the  moon, 
Until  they  came  to  yon  wan  water. 

And  there  they  lighted  down. 

They  lighted  down  to  tak  a  drink  45 

Of  the  spring  that  ran  sae  clear ; 
And  down  the  stream  ran  his  gude  heart's  blood 

And  sair  she  gan  to  fear. 

*  Hold  up,  hold  up,  Lord  William,'  she  says, 

'  For  I  fear  that  you  are  slain  ! '  50 

*  'Tis  naething  but  the  shadow  of  my  scarlet  cloak. 

That  shines  in  the  water  sae  plain.' 


74  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

O  they  rade  on,  and  on  they  rade, 

And  a'  by  the  light  of  the  moon, 
Until  they  cam'  to  his  mother's  ha'  door,  55 

And  there  they  lighted  down. 

*  Get  up,  get  up,  lady  mother,'  he  says, 

*  Get  up,  and  let  me  in  !  — 

Get  up,  get  up,  lady  mother,'  he  says, 

'  For  this  night  my  fair  ladye  I've  win.  60 

'  O  male  my  bed,  lady  mother,'  he  says, 

*  O  mak  it  braid  and  deep  ! 

And  lay  Lady  Marg'ret  close  at  my  back. 
And  the  sounder  I  will  sleep.' 

Lord  William  was  dead  lang  ere  midnight,  65 

Lady  Marg'ret  lang  ere  day  — 
And  all  true  lovers  that  go  thegither, 

May  they  have  mair  luck  than  they  ! 

Lord  William  was  buried  in  St.  Mary's  kirk. 

Lady  Margaret  in  Mary's  quire  :  70 

Out  o'  the  lady's  grave  grew  a  bonny  red  rose, 
And  out  o'  the  knight's  a  brier. 

And  they  twa  met,  and  they  twa  plat, 

And  fain  they  wad  be  near ; 
And  a'  the  warld  might  ken  right  weel,  75 

They  were  twa  lovers  dear. 

But  bye  and  rade  the  Black  Douglas, 

And  wow  but  he  w-as  rough  ! 
For  he  puU'd  up  the  bonny  brier. 

And  flang'd  in  St.  Mary's  loch.  80 


BALLADS  75 


WALY,  WALY 

[This  fragment  is  often  printed  as  part  of  a  ballad,  concerned  with 
events  in  the  history  of  Lord  James  Douglas,  of  the  laird  of  Black- 
wood, and  of  the  lady  who  utters  the  beautiful  lament  here  printed.] 

0  WALY,  waly,  up  the  bank, 

0  waly,  waly,  doun  the  brae. 
And  waly,  waly,  yon  burn- side, 

Where  I  and  my  love  were  wont  to  gae  ! 

1  lean'd  my  back  unto  an  aik,  5 

1  thocht  it  was  a  trustie  tree, 

But  first  it  bow'd  and  syne  it  brak*, — 
Sae  my  true  love  did  lichtlie  me. 

O  waly,  waly,  but  love  me  bonnie 

A  little  time  while  it  is  new  !  lo 

But  when  it 's  auld  it  waxeth  cauld, 

And  fadeth  awa'  like  the  morning  dew. 
O  wherefore  should  I  busk  my  heid. 

Or  wherefore  should  I  kame  my  hair? 
For  my  true  love  has  me  forsook,  15 

And  says  he'll  never  lo'e  me  mair, 

Noo  Arthur's  Seat  sail  be  my  bed. 

The  sheets  sail  ne'er  be  press'd  by  me ; 
Saint  Anton's  well  sail  be  my  drink ; 

Since  my  true  love's  forsaken  me.  20 

Martinmas  wind,  when  wilt  thou  blaw. 

And  shake  the  green  leaves  off  the  tree? 
O  gentle  death,  when  wilt  thou  come  ? 

For  of  my  life  I  am  wearie. 


76  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

'Tis  not  the  frost  that  freezes  fell,  25 

Nor  blawing  snaw's  inclemencie, 
'Tis  not  sic  cauld  that  makes  me  cry ; 

But  my  love's  heart  grown  cauld  to  me. 
When  we  cam'  in  by  Glasgow  toun, 

We  were  a  comely  sicet  to  see  ;  30 

My  love  was  clad  in  the  black  velvet, 

An'  I  myself  in  cramasie. 

But  had  I  wist  before  I  kiss'd 

That  love  had  been  so  ill  to  win, 
I'd  lock'd  my  heart  in  a  case  o'  goud,  35 

And  pinned  it  wi'  a  siller  pin. 
Oh,  oh  !  if  my  young  babe  were  born, 

And  set  upon  the  nurse's  knee ; 
And  I  mysel'  were  dead  and  gane. 

And  the  green  grass  growing  over  me  !  40 


KINMONT  WILLIE 

[The  events  here  reported  occurred  in  1596.  The  ballad  is  the  best 
example  of  those  which  treat  of  rescues,  and  lawless  exploits  in  the  de- 
batable land.] 

O  HAVE  ye  na  heard  o'  the  fause  Sakelde  ? 

O  have  ye  na  heard  o'  the  keen  Lord  Scroop? 
How  they  hae  ta'en  bauld  Kinmont  Willie, 

On  Hairibee  to  hang  him  up? 

Had  Willie  had  but  twenty  men,  S 

But  twenty  men  as  stout  as  he, 
Fause  Sakelde  had  never  the  Kinmont  ta'en, 

Wi'  eight  score  in  his  cumpanie. 


BALLADS  yj 

They  band  his  legs  beneath  the  steed, 

They  tied  his  hands  behind  his  back ;  lo 

They  guarded  him,  fivesome  on  each  side. 

And  they  brought  him  ower  the  Liddel-rack. 

They  led  him  thro'  the  Liddel-rack, 

And  also  thro'  the  Carlisle  sands 
They  brought  him  to  Carlisle  castell,  15 

To  be  at  my  Lord  Scroop's  commands. 

*  My  hands  are  tied,  but  my  tongue  is  free, 

And  whae  will  dare  this  deed  avow? 
Or  answer  by  the  border  law? 

Or  answer  to  the  bauld  Buccleuch  ! '  20 

'  Now  haud  thy  tongue,  thou  rank  reiver  ! 

There 's  never  a  Scot  shall  set  ye  free  : 
Before  ye  cross  my  castle  yate, 

I  trow  ye  shall  take  farewell  o'  me.' 

*  Fear  na  ye  that,  my  lord,'  quo'  Willie  :  25 

'  By  the  faith  o'  my  body.  Lord  Scroop,'  he  said, 

*  I  never  yet  lodged  in  a  hostelrie. 

But  I  paid  my  lawing  before  I  gaed.' 

Now  the  word  is  gane  to  the  bauld  Keeper, 

In  Branksome  Ha',  where  that  he  lay,  30 

That  Lord  Scroop  has  ta'en  the  Kinmont  Willie, 
Between  the  hours  of  night  and  day. 

He  has  ta'en  the  table  wi'  his  hand. 
He  garr'd  the  red  wine  spring  on  hie  — 

'  Now  Christ's  curse  on  my  head,'  he  said,  35 

*  But  avenged  of  Lord  Scroop  I'll  be  I 


78  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

*  O  is  my  basnet  a  widow's  curch  ? 

Or  my  lance  a  wand  of  the  willow  tree? 
Or  my  arm  a  ladye's  lilye  hand, 

That  an  English  lord  should  lightly  me  !  40 

'And  have  they  ta'en  him,  Kinmont  Willie, 

Against  the  truce  of  border  tide  ? 
And  forgotten  that  the  bauld  Buccleuch 

Is  Keeper  here  on  the  Scottish  side? 

*And  have  they  e'en  ta'en  him,  Kinmont  Willie,      45 

Withouten  either  dread  or  fear? 
And  forgotten  that  the  bauld  Buccleuch 

Can  back  a  steed,  or  shake  a  spear? 

*  O  were  there  war  between  the  lands, 

As  well  I  wot  that  there  is  none,  50 

I  would  slight  Carlisle  castell  high, 
Tho'  it  were  builded  of  marble  stone. 

*  I  would  set  that  castell  in  a  low, 

And  sloken  it  with  English  blood  ! 
There's  nevir  a  man  in  Cumberland,  55 

Should  ken  where  Carlisle  castell  stood. 

*  But  since  nae  war's  between  the  lands. 

And  there  is  peace,  and  peace  should  be ; 
I'll  neither  harm  English  lad  nor  lass, 
And  yet  the  Kinmont  freed  shall  be  ! '  60 

He  has  call'd  him  forty  marchmen  bauld, 

I  trow  they  were  of  his  ain  name, 
Except  Sir  Gilbert  Elliot  call'd. 

The  laird  of  Stobs,  I  mean  the  same. 


Ballads  79 

He  has  call'd  him  forty  raarchmen  bauld,  65 

Were  kinsmen  to  the  bauld  Buccleuch  ; 

With  spur  on  heel,  and  splent  on  spaueld, 
And  gleuves  of  green,  and  feathers  blue. 

There  were  five  and  five  before  them  a', 

Wi'  hunting  horns  and  bugles  bright ;  70 

And  five  and  five  came  wi'  Buccleuch, 
Like  warden's  men,  arrayed  for  fight : 

And  five  and  five,  like  a  mason  gang, 

That  carrid  the  ladders  lang  and  hie ; 
And  five  and  five,  like  broken  men ;  75 

And  so  they  reached  the  Woodhouselee. 

And  as  we  cross'd  the  Bateable  Land, 

When  to  the  English  side  we  held. 
The  first  o'  men  that  we  met  wi', 

Whae  sould  it  be  but  fause  Sakelde?  80 

*  Where  be  ye  gaun,  ye  hunters  keen  ? ' 

Quo'  fause  Sakelde  ;  '  come  tell  to  me  ! ' 
'  We  go  to  hunt  an  Enghsh  stag. 

Has  trespassed  on  the  Scots  countrie.' 

*  Where  be  ye  gaun,  ye  marshal  men  ? '  85 

Quo'  fause  Sakelde  ;  *  come  tell  me  true  ! ' 

*  We  go  to  catch  a  rank  reiver, 

Has  broken  faith  wi'  the  bauld  Buccleuch.* 

*  Where  are  ye  gaun,  ye  mason  lads, 

Wi'  a'  your  ladders,  lang  and  hie  ? '  90 

*  We  gang  to  herry  a  corbie's  nest. 

That  wons  not  far  frae  Woodhouselee.' 


8o  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

*  Where  be  ye  gaun,  ye  broken  men  ? ' 

Quo'  fause  Sakelde ;  *  come  tell  to  me  ! ' 
Now  Dickie  of  Dryhope  led  that  band,  95 

And  the  never  a  word  o'  lear  had  he. 

*  Why  trespass  ye  on  the  English  side  ? 

Row-footed  outlaws,  stand  ! '  quo'  he ; 
The  never  a  word  had  Dickie  to  say, 

Sae  he  thrust  the  lance  through  his  fause  bodie.     loo 

Then  on  we  held  for  Carlisle  toun, 

And  at  Staneshaw-bank  the  Eden  we  cross'd ; 

The  water  was  great  and  meikle  of  spait, 
But  the  nevir  a  horse  nor  man  we  lost. 

And  when  we  reached  the  Staneshaw-bank,  105 

The  wind  was  rising  loud  and  hie ; 
And  there  the  laird  garr'd  leave  our  steeds, 

For  fear  that  they  should  stamp  and  nie. 

And  when  we  left  the  Staneshaw-bank, 

The  wind  began  full  loud  to  blaw,  no 

But  'twas  wind  and  weet,  and  fire  and  sleet. 

When  we  came  beneath  the  castle  wa'. 

We  crept  on  knees,  and  held  our  breath. 
Till  we  placed  the  ladders  against  the  wa' ; 

And  sae  ready  was  Buccleuch  himsell  115 

To  mount  the  first,  before  us  a'. 

He  has  ta'en  the  watchman  by  the  throat. 
He  flung  him  down  upon  the  lead  — 

*  Had  there  not  been  peace  between  our  land, 

*  Upon  the  other  side  thou  hadst  gaed  !  —  120 


BALLADS  8 1 

*  Now  sound  out,  trumpets  ! '  quo'  Buccleuch  \ 

*  Let's  waken  Lord  Scroop,  right  merrilie  ! ' 
Then  loud  the  warden's  trumpet  blew  — 

*  O  wha  dare  meddle  wi'  me  ? ' 

Then  speedilie  to  work  we  gaed,  125 

And  raised  the  slogan  ane  and  a', 
And  cut  a  hole  thro'  a  sheet  of  lead, 

And  so  we  wan  to  the  castle  ha'. 

They  thought  King  James  and  a'  his  men 

Had  won  the  house  wi'  bow  and  spear ;  130 

It  was  but  twenty  Scots  and  ten. 
That  put  a  thousand  in  sic  a  stear  ! 

Wi'  coulters,  and  wi'  fore-hammers, 

We  garr'd  the  bars  bang  merrilie, 
Until  we  came  to  the  inner  prison,  135 

Where  Willie  o'  Kinraont  he  did  lie. 

And  when  we  cam  to  the  lower  prison, 
Where  Willie  o'  Kinmont  he  did  lie  — 

*  O  sleep  ye,  wake  ye,  Kinmont  Willie, 

Upon  the  mom  that  thou's  to  die  ? '  140 

*  O  I  sleep  saft,  and  I  wake  aft ; 

It's  lang  since  sleeping  was  fleyed  frae  me  ! 
Gie  my  service  back  to  my  wife  and  bairns. 
And  a'  gude  fellows  thet  spier  for  me.' 

Then  Red  Rowan  has  hente  him  up,  145 

The  starkest  man  in  Teviotdale  — 

*  Abide,  abide  now.  Red  Rowan, 

Till  of  my  Lord  Scroope  I  take  farewell. 


82  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

*  Farewell,  farewell,  my  gude  Lord  Scroop  ! 

My  gude  Lord  Scroop,  farewell ! '  he  cried —     150 

*  I'll  pay  you  for  my  lodging  maill, 

When  first  we  meet  on  the  border  side.' 

Then  shoulder  high,  wi'  shout  and  cry, 
We  bore  him  down  the  ladder  lang ; 

At  every  stride  Red  Rowan  made,  155 

I  wot  the  Kinmont's  aims  played  clang  ! 

*  O  mony  a  time,'  quo'  Kinmont  Willie, 

*  I  have  ridden  horse  baith  wild  and  wood  ; 
But  a  rougher  beast  than  Red  Rowan, 

I  ween  my  legs  have  ne'er  bestrode.  160 

*  O  mony  a  time,'  quo'  Kinmont  Willie, 

*  I've  pricked  a  horse  out  oure  the  furs ; 
But  since  the  day  I  backed  a  steed, 

I  never  wore  sic  cumbrous  spurs  ! ' 

We  scarce  had  won  the  Staneshaw-bank,  165 

When  a'  the  Carlisle  bells  were  rung, 

And  a  thousand  men,  in  horse  and  foot, 
Cam  wi'  the  keen  Lord  Scroope  along. 

Buccleuch  he  turned  to  Eden  water. 

Even  where  it  flowed  frae  bank  to  brim,  170 

And  he  has  plunged  in  wi'  a'  his  band. 

And  safely  swam  them  thro'  the  stream. 

He  turned  him  on  the  other  side. 

And  at  Lord  Scroope  his  glove  flung  he  — 

*  If  ye  like  na  my  visit  in  merry  England,  175 

In  fair  Scotland  come  visit  me  ! ' 


BALLADS  83 

All  sore  astonished  stood  Lord  Scroope, 

He  stood  as  still  as  rock  of  stane ; 
He  scarcely  dared  to  trew  his  eyes, 

When  thro'  the  water  they  had  gane.  180 

*  He  is  either  himself  a  devil  frae  hell, 
Or  else  his  mother  a  witch  maun  be ; 

I  wad  na  ha  ridden  that  wan  water, 
For  a'  the  gowd  in  Christentie.' 


ROBIN   HOOD   RESCUING  THE   WIDOWS   THREE 
SONS 

There  are  twelve  months  in  all  the  year, 

As  I  hear  many  say, 
But  the  merriest  month  in  all  the  year 

Is  the  merry  month  of  May. 

Now  Robin  Hood  is  to  Nottingham  gone,  5 

With  a  link  a  down,  and  a  day, 
And  there  he  met  a  silly  old  woman, 

Was  weeping  on  the  way, 

*  What  news  ?  what  news  ?  thou  silly  old  woman. 

What  news  hast  thou  for  me?'  10 

Said  she,  'There's  my  three  sons  in  Nottingham  town, 
To-day  condemned  to  die.' 

*  O,  have  they  parishes  burnt  ? '  he  said, 

'  Or  have  they  ministers  slain? 
Or  have  they  robbed  any  virgin  ?  15 

Or  other  men's  wives  have  ta'en?  ' 


84  FROM   CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

*  They  have  no  parishes  burnt,  good  sir, 

Nor  yet  have  ministers  slain, 
Nor  have  they  robbed  any  virgin, 

Nor  other  men's  wives  have  ta'en.'  so 

*  O,  what  have  they  done  ? '  said  Robin  Hood, 

'  I  pray  thee  tell  to  me.' 
'  It's  for  slaying  of  the  king's  fallow  deer, 
Bearing  their  long  bows  with  thee.' 

'  Dost  thou  not  mind,  old  woman,'  he  said,  25 

'  How  thou  madest  me  sup  and  dine  ? 
By  the  truth  of  my  body,'  quoth  bold  Robin  Hood, 

*  You  could  not  tell  it  in  better  time.' 

Now  Robin  Hood  is  to  Nottingham  gone, 

fVi^A  a  link  a  down,  and  a  day,  30 

And  there  he  met  with  a  silly  old  palmer. 
Was  walking  on  the  highway. 

*  What  news  ?  what  news  ?  thou  silly  old  man. 

What  news,  I  do  thee  pray  ? ' 
Said  he,  *  Three  squires  in  Nottingham  town  35 

Are  condemn'd  to  die  this  day.' 

*  Come  change  thy  apparel  with  me,  old  man, 

Come  change  thy  apparel  for  mine ; 
Here  is  ten  shillings  in  good  silver. 

Go  drink  it  in  beer  or  wine.'  40 

*  O,  thine  apparel  is  good,'  he  said, 

'  And  mine  is  ragged  and  torn ; 

Wherever  you  go,  wherever  you  ride. 

Laugh  not  an  old  man  to  scorn.' 


BALLADS  85 

'  Come  change  thy  apparel  with  me,  old  churl,  45 

Come  change  thy  apparel  with  mine ; 
Here  is  a  piece  of  good  broad  gold, 

Go  feast  thy  brethren  with  wine.' 

Then  he  put  on  the  old  man's  hat ; 

It  stood  full  high  on  the  crown  :  50 

*  The  first  bold  bargain  that  I  come  at, 

It  shall  make  thee  come  down.' 

Then  he  put  on  the  old  man's  cloak, 

Was  patch'd  black,  blue,  and  red  ; 
He  thought  it  no  shame,  all  the  day  long,  55 

To  wear  the  bags  of  bread. 

Then  he  put  on  the  old  man's  breeks, 
Was  patch'd  from  leg  to  side  : 

*  By  the  truth  of  my  body,'  bold  Robin  can  say, 

*  This  man  loved  httle  pride.'  60 

Then  he  put  on  the  old  man's  hose, 
Were  patch'd  from  knee  to  wrist : 

*  By  the  truth  of  my  body,'  said  bold  Robin  Hood, 

*  I'd  laugh  if  I  had  any  list.' 

Then  he  put  on  the  old  man's  shoes,  I5 

Were  patch'd  both  beneath  and  aboon  ; 
Then  Robin  Hood  swore  a  solemn  oath, 

*  It's  good  habit  that  makes  a  man.' 

Now  Robin  Hood  is  to  Nottingham  gone, 

With  a  link  a  doivn  afid  a  dotvn,  yo 

And  there  he  met  with  the  proud  sheriff, 
Was  walking  along  the  town. 


86  FROM   CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

'  Save  you,  save  you,  sheriff ! '  he  said  ; 

'  Now  heaven  you  save  and  see  ! 
And  what  will  you  give  to  a  silly  old  man  75 

To-day  will  your  hangman  be  ? ' 

*  Some  suits,  some  suits,'  the  sheriff  he  said. 

'Some  suits  I'll  give  to  thee  ; 
Some  suits,  some  suits,  and  pence  thirteen. 

To-day's  a  hangman's  fee.*  So 

Then  Robin  he  turns  him  round  about. 

And  jumps  from  stock  to  stone  : 

*  By  the  truth  of  my  body,'  the  sheriff  he  said, 

*  That's  well  jumpt,  thou  nimble  old  man.' 

*  I  was  ne'er  a  hangman  in  all  my  life,  85 

Nor  yet  intends  to  trade ; 
But  curst  be  he,'  said  bold  Robin, 
'  That  first  a  hangman  was  made  ! 

*  I've  a  bag  for  meal,  and  a  bag  for  malt, 

And  a  bag  for  barley  and  com ;  90 

A  bag  for  bread,  and  a  bag  for  beef, 
And  a  bag  for  my  little  small  horn. 

*  I  have  a  horn  in  my  pocket, 

I  got  it  from  Robin  Hood, 
And  still  when  I  set  it  to  my  mouth,  95 

For  thee  it  blows  little  good.' 

*0,  wind  thy  horn,  thou  proud  fellow! 

Of  thee  I  have  no  doubt. 
I  wish  that  thou  give  such  a  blast, 

Till  both  thy  eyes  fall  out.'  100 


BALLADS  87 

The  first  loud  blast  that  he  did  blow, 

He  blew  both  loud  and  shrill; 
A  hundred  and  fifty  of  Robin  Hood's  men 

Came  riding  over  the  hill. 

The  next  loud  blast  that  he  did  give,  105 

He  blew  both  loud  and  amain, 
And  quickly  sixty  of  Robin  Hood's  men 

Came  shining  over  the  plain. 

'  O,  who  are  these,'  the  sheriff  he  said, 

'  Come  tripping  over  the  lee?"  no 

'They're  my  attendants,'  brave  Robin  did  say; 
'They'll  pay  a  visit  to  thee.' 

They  took  the  gallows  from  the  slack, 

They  set  it  in  the  glen, 
They  hanged  the  proud  sheriff  on  that,  115 

Released  their  own  three  men. 


GET   UP   AND   BAR   THE   DOOR,   O 

It  fell  about  the  Martinmas  time. 
And  a  gay  time  it  was  than,  O, 
That  our  gudewife  had  puddins  to  mak' 
And  she  boil'd  them  in  the  pan,  O. 

And  the  barrin'  o'  our  door,  well,  weil,  well. 

And  the  barrin'  o'  our  door  weil. 

The  wind  blew  cauld  frae  north  to  south, 

And  blew  intil  the  floor,  O ; 
Quoth  our  gudeman  to  our  gudewife, 

'  Get  up  and  bar  the  door,  O.' 


88  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

*  My  hand  is  in  my  hussyfskip, 

Gudeman,  as  you  may  see,  O ; 
An  it  shou'dna  be  barr'd  this  hunner  year, 
It's  no  be  barr'd  by  me,  O.' 

They  made  a  paction  'tween  them  twa,  15 

They  made  it  firm  and  sure,  O, 
The  first  that  spak  the  foremost  word 

Should  rise  and  bar  the  door,  O. 

Then  by  there  came  twa  gentlemen, 

At  twelve  o'clock  at  nicht,  O,  20 

And  they  could  neither  see  house  nor  ha'. 
Nor  coal  nor  candle  licht,  O. 

*  Now  whether  is  this  a  rich  man's  house, 

Or  whether  is  it  a  puir,  O  ? ' 
But  ne'er  a  word  wad  ane  o'  them  speak,  25 

For  barring  of  the  door,  O. 

And  first  they  ate  the  white  puddins. 

And  syne  they  ate  the  black,  O ; 
And  muckle  thought  the  gudewife  to  hersel', 

Yet  ne'er  a  word  she  spak,  O.  30 

Then  ane  unto  the  ither  said, 

'  Hae,  man,  tak  ye  my  knife,  O ; 
Do  ye  tak  aff  the  auld  man's  beard. 

And  I'll  kiss  the  gudewife,  O.' 

*  But  there's  nae  water  in  the  house,  35 

And  what  shall  we  do  then,  O? ' 

*  What  ails  ye  at  the  puddins  bree 

That  boils  into  the  pan,  O  ? ' 


BALLADS  89 

O  up  then  startit  our  gudeman, 

An  angry  man  was  he,  O ;  40 

'  Wad  ye  kiss  my  wife  before  my  een, 

And  scaud  me  wi'  puddin  bree,  O  ? ' 

O  up  then  startit  our  gudewife, 

Gied  three  skips  on  the  floor,  O ; 
'  Gudeman,  ye've  spak  the  foremost  word ;  45 

Get  up  and  bar  the  door,  O.' 


BESSIE   BELL  AND   MARY   GRAY 

O  Bessie  Bell  and  Mary  Gray, 

They  war  twa  bonnie  lasses  ! 
They  bigget  a  bower  on  yon  burn-brae, 

And  theekit  o'er  wi'  rashes. 

They  theekit  o'er  wi'  rashes  green,  5 

They  theekit  o'er  wi'  heather ; 
But  the  pest  cam  frae  the  burrows-toun, 

And  slew  them  baith  thegither. 

They  thought  to  lie  in  Methven  kirk-yard 

Amang  their  noble  kin ;  10 

But  they  maun  lye  in  stronach  haugh. 
To  biek  forenent  the  sin  : 

And  Bessie  Bell  and  Mary  Gray, 

They  war  twa  bonnie  lasses  ; 
They  bigget  a  bower  on  yon  burn-brae,  15 

And  theekit  o'er  wi'  rashes. 


« 


> 


^' 


K 


EDMUND   SPENSER 

(1553—1599) 

/  THE   SHEPHEARDS   CALENDER 

JANUARIE 

iEGLOGA   PR  I  MA  —  ARGUM  ENT 

[In  this  fyrst  ^glogue  Colin  Cloute,  a  shepheardes  boy,  complaineth 
him  of  his  unfortunate  love,  being  but  newly  (as  semeth)  enamoured 
of  a  country  lasse  called  Rosalinde :  with  which  strong  affection  being 
very  sore  traveled,  he  compareth  his  careful!  case  to  the  sadde  season 
of  the  yeare,  to  the  frostie  ground,  to  the  frosen  trees,  and  to  his  owne 
winter-beaten  flocke.  And,  lastlye,  fynding  himselfe  robbed  of  all 
former  pleasaunce  and  delights,  he  breaketh  his  Pipe  in  peeces,  and 
casteth  him  selfe  to  the  ground.] 

Colin  Cloute 

A  SHEPEHEARDS  boyc,  (no  better  doe  him  call,) 
When  Winters  wastful  spight  was  almost  spent, 
All  in  a  sunneshine  day,  as  did  befall. 
Led  forth  his  flock,  that  had  bene  long  ypent : 

So  faynt  they  woxe,  and  feeble  in  the  folde,  5 

That  now  unnethes  their  feete  could  them  uphold. 

All  as  the  Sheepe,  such  was  the  shepeheards  looke, 
For  pale  and  wanne  he  was,  (alas  the  while  !) 
May  seeme  he  lovd,  or  els  some  care  he  tooke ; 
Well  couth  he  tune  his  pipe  and  frame  his  stile  :  10 

Tho  to  a  hill  his  faynting  flocke  he  ledde, 
And  thus  him  playnd,  the  while  his  shepe  there  fedde, 
90 


SPENSER  91 

^jl       *  Ye  Gods  of  love,  that  pitie  lovers  payne, 

W^       (If  any  gods  the  paine  of  lovers  pitie) 

^;       Looke  from  above,  where  you  in  joyes  remaine,  15 

^i       And  bowe  your  eares  unto  my  dolefull  dittie : 
■^^  And,  Pan,  thou  shepheards  God  that  once  didst  love, 

^!»,_^     Pitie  the  paines  that  thou  thy  selfe  didst  prove. 

'Thou  barrein  ground,  whome  winters  wrath  hath  wasted, 
Art  made  a  myrrhour  to  behold  my  plight :  20 

Whilome  thy  fresh  spring  flowrd,  and  after  hasted 
Thy  sommer  prowde,  with  Daffadillies  dight; 
And  now  is  come  thy  wynters  stormy  state. 
Thy  mantel  mard,  wherein  thou  maskedst  late. 

*  Such  rage  as  winters  reigneth  in  my  heart,  25 
My  life-bloud  friesing  with  unkindly  cold  ; 

Such  stormy  stoures  do  breede  my  balefuU  smart, 
As  if  my  yeare  were  wast  and  woxen  old ; 
And  yet,  alas  !  but  now  my  spring  begonne. 
And  yet,  alas  !  yt  is  already  donne,  30 

*  You  naked  trees,  whose  shady  leaves  are  lost. 
Wherein  the  byrds  were  wont  to  build  their  bowre. 
And  now  are  clothd  with  mosse  and  hoary  frost, 
Instede  of  blossmes,  wherewith  your  buds  did  flowre ; 

I  see  your  teares  that  from  your  boughes  doe  raine,    35 
Whose  drops  in  drery  ysicles  remaine. 

'  All  so  my  lustful!  leafe  is  drye  and  sere, 
My  timely  buds  with  wayling  all  are  wasted  ; 
The  blossome  which  my  braunch  of  youth  did  beare 
With  breathed  sighes  is  blowne  away  and  blasted  ;  40 

And  from  mine  eyes  the  drizling  teares  descend. 
As  on  your  boughes  the  ysicles  depend. 


92  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

*  Thou  feeble  flocke,  whose  fleece  is  rough  and  rent, 
Whose  knees  are  weake  through  fast  and  evill  fare, 
Mayst  witnesse  well,  by  thy  ill  government,  45 
Thy  maysters  mind  is  overcome  with  care  : 

Thou  weake,  I  wanne  ;  thou  leane,  I  quite  forlorne  : 
With  mourning  pyne  1 ;  you  with  pyning  mourne. 

*  A  thousand  sithes  I  curse  that  carefuU  hower 
Wherein  I  longd  the  neighbour  towne  to  see,  50 
And  eke  tenne  thousand  sithes  I  blesse  the  stoure 
Wherein  I  sawe  so  fayre  a  sight  as  shee  : 

Yet  all  for  naught :  such  sight  hath  bred  my  bane. 
Ah,  God  !  that  love  should  breede  both  joy  and  payne  ! 

*  It  is  not  Hobbinol  wherefore  I  plaine,  55 
Albee  my  love  he  seeke  with  dayly  suit; 

His  clownish  gifts  and  curtsies  I  disdaine, 
His  kiddes,  his  cracknelles,  and  his  early  fruit. 

Ah,  fooHsh  Hobbinol !  thy  gyfts  bene  vayne ; 

Colin  them  gives  to  Rosalind  againe.  60 

*  I  love  thilke  lasse,  (alas  !  why  doe  I  love  ?) 
And  am  forlorne,  (alas  !  why  am  I  lorne?) 

Shee  deignes  not  my  good  will,  but  doth  reprove, 

And  of  my  rurall  musicke  holdeth  scorne. 

Shepheards  devise  she  hateth  as  the  snake,  65 

And  laughes  the  songs  that  Colin  Clout  doth  make. 

*  Wherefore,  my  pype,  albee  rude  Pan  thou  please, 
Yet  for  thou  pleasest  not  where  most  I  would : 
And  thou,  unlucky  Muse,  that  wontst  to  ease 

My  musing  mynd,  yet  canst  not  when  thou  should ;         70 
Both  pype  and  Muse  shall  sore  the  while  abye.' 
So  broke  his  oaten  pipe,  and  downe  dyd  lye. 


SPENSER  93 

By  that,  the  walked  Phoebus  gan  availe 

His  weary  waine ;  and  nowe  the  frosty  Night 

Her  mantle  black  through  heaven  gan  overhaile  :  75 

Which  scene,  the  pensife  boy,  halfe  in  despight. 
Arose,  and  homeward  drove  his  sonned  sheepe. 
Whose  hanging  heads  did  seeme  his  careful!  case  to  weepe. 


ASTROPHEL 

A  PASTORAL  ELEGIE 

UPON  THE   DEATH   OF  THE    MOST   NOBLE  AND   VALOROUS   KNIGHT, 

SIR  PHILIP  SIDNEY 

DEDICATED   TO  THE   MOST  BEAUTIFUL  AND   VERTUOUS   LADIE, 

THE  COUNTESS  OF  ESSEX 

Shepheards,  that  wont,  on  pipes  of  oaten  reed, 
Oft  times  to  plaine  your  loves  concealed  smart ; 
And  with  your  piteous  layes  have  learnd  to  breed 
Compassion  in  a  countrey  lasses  hart 
Hearken,  ye  gentle  shepheards,  to  my  song. 
And  place  my  dolefuU  plaint  your  plaints  emong. 

To  you  alone  I  sing  this  mournfuU  verse, 

The  mournfulst  verse  that  ever  man  heard  tell : 

To  you  whose  softened  hearts  it  may  impierse 

With  dolors  dart  for  death  of  Astrophel.  i 

To  you  I  sing  and  to  none  other  wight, 

For  well  I  wot  my  rymes  bene  rudely  dight. 

Yet  as  they  been,  if  any  nycer  wit 

Shall  hap  to  heare,  or  covet  them  to  read : 


94  From  cHaucer  to  arnolD 

Thinke  he,  that  such  are  for  such  ones  most  fit,  15 

Made  not  to  please  the  Uving  but  the  dead. 
And  if  in  him  found  pity  ever  place, 
Let  him  be  moov'd  to  pity  such  a  case. 

ASTROPHEL 

A  GENTLE  shepheard  borne  in  Arcady, 

Of  gentlest  race  that  ever  shepheard  bore. 

About  the  grassy  bancks  of  Haemony 

Did  keepe  his  sheep,  his  litle  stock  and  store : 

Full  carefully  he  kept  them  day  and  night,  5 

In  fairest  fields  ;  and  Astrophel  he  hight. 

Young  Astrophel,  the  pride  of  shepheards  praise, 

Young  Astrophel,  the  rusticke  lasses  love  : 

Far  passing  all  the  pastors  of  his  dales, 

In  all  that  seemly  shepheard  might  behove.  10 

In  one  thing  onely  fayling  of  the  best, 

That  he  was  not  so  happie  as  the  rest. 

For  from  the  time  that  first  the  Nymph  his  mother 
Him  forth  did  bring,  and  taught  her  lambs  to  feed ; 
A  sclender  swaine  excelling  far  each  other,  15 

In  comely  shape,  like  her  that  did  him  breed, 
He  grew  up  fast  in  goodnesse  and  in  grace, 
And  doubly  faire  wox  both  in  mynd  and  face. 

Which  daily  more  and  more  he  did  augment, 

With  gentle  usuage  and  demeanure  myld  :  20 

That  all  mens  hearts  with  secret  ravishment 

He  stole  away,  and  weetingly  beguyld. 

Ne  spight  it  selfe,  that  all  good  things  doth  spill. 

Found  ought  in  him,  that  she  could  say  was  ill. 


SPENSER  95 

His  sports  were  faire,  his  joyance  innocent,  25 

Sweet  without  sowre,  and  honey  without  gall : 

And  he  himselfe  seemed  made  for  merriment, 

Merily  masking  both  in  bowre  and  hall. 

There  was  no  pleasurs  nor  delightfull  play, 

When  Astrophel  so  ever  was  away.  30 

For  he  could  pipe,  and  daunce,  and  caroU  sweet, 

Emongst  the  shepheards  in  their  shearing  feast ; 

As  Somers  larke  that  with  her  song  doth  greet 

The  dawning  day  forth  comming  from  the  East. 

And  layes  of  love  he  also  could  compose  :  35 

Thrise  happie  she,  whom  he  to  praise  did  chose. 

Full  many  Maydens  often  did  him  woo, 

Them  to  vouchsafe  emongst  his  rimes  to  name. 

Or  make  for  them  as  he  was  wont  to  doo 

For  her  that  did  his  heart  with  love  inflame.  40 

For  which  they  promised  to  dight  for  him 

Gay  chaplets  of  flowers  and  gyrlonds  trim. 

And  many  a  Nymph  both  of  the  wood  and  brooke, 

Soone  as  his  oaten  pipe  began  to  shrill, 

Both  christall  wells  and  shadie  groves  forsooke,  45 

To  heare  the  charmes  of  his  enchanting  skill ; 

And  brought  him  presents,  flowers  if  it  were  prime. 

Or  mellow  fruit  if  it  were  harvest  time. 

But  he  for  none  of  them  did  care  a  whit, 

Yet  woodgods  for  them  often  sighed  sore  :  50 

Ne  for  their  gifts  unworthie  of  his  wit, 

Yet  not  unworthie  of  the  countries  store. 

For  one  alone  he  cared,  for  one  he  sigh't. 

His  lifes  desire  and  his  deare  loves  delight. 


96  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

Stella  the  faire,  the  fairest  star  in  skie,  55 

As  faire  as  Venus  or  the  fairest  faire, 

(A  fairer  star  saw  never  living  eie,) 

Shot  her  sharp  pointed  beames  through  purest  aire. 

Her  he  did  love,  her  he  alone  did  honor. 

His  thoughts,  his  rimes,  his  songs  were  all  upon  her.       60 

To  her  he  vowed  the  service  of  his  daies, 

On  her  he  spent  the  riches  of  his  wit : 

For  her  he  made  hymnes  of  immortall  praise, 

Of  onely  her  he  sung,  he  thought,  he  writ. 

Her,  and  but  her,  of  love  he  worthy  deemed ;  65 

For  all  the  rest  but  litle  he  esteemed. 

Ne  her  with  ydle  words  alone  he  wowed, 

And  verses  vaine,  (yet  verses  are  not  vaine,) 

But  with  brave  deeds  to  her  sole  service  vowed, 

And  bold  atchievements  her  did  entertaine.  70 

For  both  in  deeds  and  words  he  nourtred  was. 

Both  wise  and  hardie,  (too  hardie,  alas  O--*^ 

In  wrestling  nimble,  and  in  renning  swift, 

In  shooting  steddie,  and  in  swimming  strong : 

Well  made  to  strike,  to  throw,  to  leape,  to  lift,  75 

And  all  the  sports  that  shepheards  are  emong. 

In  every  one  he  vanquisht  every  one. 

He  vanquisht  all,  and  vanquisht  was  of  none. 

Besides,  in  hunting  such  felicitie, 

Or  rather  infelicitie,  he  found,  80 

That  every  field  and  forest  far  away 

He  sought  where  salvage  beasts  do  most  abound. 

No  beast  so  salvage  but  he  could  it  kill ; 

No  chace  so  hard,  but  he  therein  had  skill. 


SPENSER  97 

Such  skill,  matcht  with  such  courage  as  he  had,  85 

Did  prick  him  foorth  with  proud  desire  of  praise 

To  seek  abroad,  of  daunger  nought  ydrad, 

His  mistresse  name,  and  his  owne  fame  to  raise. 

What  needeth  peril  to  be  sought  abroad, 

Since  round  about  us  it  doth  make  aboad  !  90 

It  fortuned  as  he  that  perilous  game 

In  forreine  soyle  pursued  far  away, 

Into  a  forest  wide  and  waste  he  came, 

Where  store  he  heard  to  be  of  salvage  pray. 

So  wide  a  forest  and  so  waste  as  this,  95 

Nor  famous  Ardeyn,  nor  fovvle  Arlo,  is. 

There  his  wellwoven  toyles,  and  subtil  traines, 

He  laid  the  brutish  nation  to  enwrap  : 

So  well  he  wrought  with  practise  and  with  paines. 

That  he  of  them  great  troops  did  soon  entrap.  100 

Full  happie  man  (misweening  much)  was  hee, 

So  rich  a  spoile  within  his  power  to  see. 

Eftsoones,  all  heedlesse  of  his  dearest  hale, 

Full  greedily  into  the  heard  he  thrust, 

To  slaughter  them  and  worke  their  finall  bale  ;  105 

Least  that  his  toyle  should  of  their  troups  be  brust. 

Wide  wounds  emongst  them  many  one  he  made, 

Now  with  his  sharp  bore-spear,  now  with  his  blade. 

His  care  was  all  how  he  them  all  might  kill. 

That  none  might  scape,  (so  partiall  unto  none  :)  no 

111  mynd  so  much  to  mynd  anothers  ill. 

As  to  become  unmyndfuU  of  his  owne. 

But  pardon  that  unto  the  cruel  skies. 

That  from  himselfe  to  them  withdrew  his  eies. 

H 


98  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

So  as  he  rag'd  emongst  that  beastly  rout,  115 

A  cruell  beast  of  most  accursed  brood 

Upon  him  turned,  (despeyre  makes  cowards  stout,) 

And,  with  fell  tooth  accustomed  to  blood, 

Launched  his  thigh  with  so  mischievous  might, 

That  it  both  bone  and  muscles  ryved  quight.  120 

So  deadly  was  the  dint  and  deep  the  wound, 

And  so  huge  streames  of  blood  thereout  did  flow. 

That  he  endured  not  the  direfull  stound. 

But  on  the  cold  deare  earth  himselfe  did  throw ; 

The  whiles  the  captive, heard  his  nets  did  rend,  125 

And,  having  none  tofi^,' to  wood  did  wend. 

Ah  !  where  were  ye  this  while  his  shepheard  peares. 

To  whom  alive  was  nought  so  deare  as  hee  : 

And  ye  fayre  Mayds,  the  matches  of  his  yeares, 

Which  in  his  grace  did  boast  you  most  to  bee  !  130 

Ah  !  where  were  ye,  when  he  of  you  had  need, 

To  stop  his  wound  that  wondrously  did  bleed  ! 

Ah  !  wretched  boy,  the  shape  of  dreryhead, 

And  sad  ensample  of  mans  suddein  end : 

Full  litle  faileth  but  thou  shalt  be  dead,  135 

Unpitied,  unplaynd,  of  foe  or  frend  : 

Whilest  none  is  nigh,  thine  eyUds  up  to  close, 

And  kisse  thy  lips  Uke  faded  leaves  of  rose. 

A  sort  of  shepherds,  sewing  of  the  chace, 

As  they  the  forest  raunged  on  a  day.  140 

By  fate  or  fortune  came  unto  the  place, 

Where  as  the  lucklesse  boy  yet  bleeding  lay ; 

Yet  bleeding  lay,  and  yet  would  still  have  bled, 

Had  not  good  hap  those  shepheards  thether  led. 


SPENSER  99 

They  stopt  his  wound,  (too  late  to  stop  it  was  !)  145 

And  in  their  armes  then  softly  did  him  reare  : 

Tho  (as  he  wild)  unto  his  loved  lasse, 

His  dearest  love,  him  dolefully  did  beare. 

The  dolefulst  beare  that  ever  man  did  see, 

Was  Astrophel,  but  dearest  unto  mee  !  150 

She,  when  she  saw  her  love  in  such  a  plight, 

With  crudled  blood  and  filthie  gore  deformed, 

That  wont  to  be  with  flowers  and  gyrlonds  dight, 

And  her  deare  favours  dearly  well  adorned ; 

Her  face,  the  fairest  face  that  eye  mote  see,  155 

She  likewise  did  deforrae,  like  him  to  bee. 

Her  yellow  locks  that  shone  so  bright  and  long, 

As  Sunny  beames  in  fairest  somers  day, 

She  fiersly  tore,  and  with  outragious  wrong 

From  her  red  cheeks  the  roses  rent  away ;  160 

And  her  faire  brest,  the  threasury  of  joy. 

She  spoyld  thereof,  and  filled  with  annoy. 

His  palled  face,  impictured  with  death. 

She  bathed  oft  with  teares,  and  dried  oft : 

And  with  sweet  kisses  suckt  the  wasting  breath  165 

Out  of  his  lips  like  lilies  pale  and  soft : 

And  oft  she  cald  to  him,  who  answerd  nought, 

But  onely  by  his  lookes  did  tell  his  thought. 

The  rest  of  her  impatient  regret. 

And  piteous  mone  the  which  she  for  him  made,  170 

No  toong  can  tell,  nor  any  forth  can  set. 

But  he  whose  heart  Hke  sorrow  did  invade. 

At  last,  when  paine  his  vitall  powres  had  spent, 

His  wasted  life  her  wearie  lodge  forwent. 


100  FROM   CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

Which  when  she  saw,  she  staled  not  a  whit,  175 

But  after  him  did  make  untimely  haste : 

Forth-with  her  ghost  out  of  her  corps  did  flit, 

And  followed  her  make  like  turtle  chaste, 

To  prove  that  death  their  hearts  cannot  divide 

Which  living  were  in  love  so  firmly  tide.  180 

The  gods,  which  all  things  see,  this  same  beheld, 

And,  pittying  this  paire  of  lovers  trew. 

Transformed  them,  there  lying  on  the  field. 

Into  one  flowre  that  is  both  red  and  blew ; 

It  first  growes  red,  and  then  to  blew  doth  fade,  185 

Like  Astrophel,  which  thereinto  was  made. 

And  in  the  midst  thereof  a  star  appeares, 

As  fairly  formd  as  any  star  in  skyes ; 

Resembling  Stella  in  her  freshest  yeares. 

Forth  darting  beames  of  beautie  from  her  eyes  :  190 

And  all  the  day  it  standeth  full  of  deow, 

Which  is  the  teares,  that  from  her  eyes  did  flow. 

That  hearbe  of  some  Starlight  is  cald  by  name. 

Of  others  Penthia,  though  not  so  well : 

But  thou,  where  ever  thou  dost  finde  the  same,  195 

From  this  day  forth  do  call  it  Astrophel : 

And,  when  so  ever  thou  it  up  doest  take. 

Do  pluck  it  softly  for  that  shepheards  sake. 

Hereof  when  tydings  far  abroad  did  passe, 

The  shepheards  all  which  loved  him  full  deare,  200 

And  sure  full  deare  of  all  he  loved  was, 

Did  thether  flock  to  see  what  they  did  heare 

And  when  that  pitteous  spectacle  they  vewed, 

The  same  with  bitter  teares  they  all  bedewed. 


SPENSER  lOI 

And  every  one  did  make  exceeding  mone,  205 

With  inward  anguish  and  great  griefe  opprest : 
And  every  one  did  weep  and  waile,  and  mone, 
And  meanes  deviz'd  to  show  his  sorrow  best. 
That  from  that  houre,  since  first  on  grassie  greene 
Shepheards  kept  sheep,  was  not  like  mourning  seen.  210 

But  first  his  sister  that  Clorinda  hight, 

The  gentlest  shepheardesse  that  lives  this  day, 

And  most  resembling  both  in  shape  and  spright 

Her  brother  deare,  began  this  doleful!  lay. 

Which,  least  I  marre  the  svveetnesse  of  the  vearse,     215 

In  sort  as  she  it  sung  I  will  rehearse. 


AMORETTI 


Happy,  ye  leaves  !  when  as  those  lilly  hands, 
Which  hold  my  Ufe  in  their  dead-doing  might, 
Shall  handle  you,  and  hold  in  loves  soft  bands, 
Lyke  captives  trembling  at  the  victors  sight. 
And  happy  lines  !  on  which,  with  starry  hght. 
Those  lamping  eyes  will  deigne  sometimes  to  look 
And  reade  the  sorrowes  of  my  dying  spright, 
Written  with  teares  in  harts  close-bleeding  book. 
And  happy  ryrnes  !  bath'd  in  the  sacred  brooke 
Of  Helicon,  whence  she  derived  is  ;  i 

When  ye  behold  that  Angels  blessed  looke. 
My  soules  long-lacked  foode,  my  heavens  blis ; 

Leaves,  hnes,  and  rymes,  seeke  her  to  please  alone, 
Whom  if  ye  please,  I  care  for  other  none ! 


102  FROM   CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

vn 

Fayre  eyes  !  the  myrrour  of  my  mazed  hart, 
What  wondrous  vertue  is  contaynd  in  you, 
The  which  both  lyfe  and  death  forth  from  you  dart, 
Into  the  object  of  your  mighty  view? 
For,  when  ye  mildly  looke  with  lovely  hew. 
Then  is  my  soule  with  life  and  love  inspired : 
But  when  ye  lowre,  or  looke  on  me  askew, 
Then  doe  I  die,  as  one  with  lightning  fyred. 
But,  since  that  lyfe  is  more  than  death  desyred, 
Looke  ever  lovely,  as  becomes  you  best ; 
That  your  bright  beams,  of  my  weak  eies  admyred, 
May  kindle  living  fire  within  my  breast. 
Such  life  should  be  the  honor  of  your  light, 
Such  death  the  sad  ensample  of  your  might. 


xn 

One  day  I  sought  with  her  hart-thrilling  eies 
To  make  a  truce,  and  termes  to  entertaine  : 
All  fearlesse  then  of  so  false  enimies. 
Which  sought  me  to  entrap  in  treasons  traine. 
So,  as  I  then  disarmed  did  remaine, 
A  wicked  ambush  which  lay  hidden  long 
In  the  close  covert  of  her  guilefuU  eyen. 
Thence  breaking  forth,  did  thick  about  me  throng. 
Too  feeble  I  t'abide  the  brunt  so  strong, 
Was  forst  to  yeeld  my  selfe  into  their  hands ; 
Who,  me  captiving  streight  with  rigorous  wrong. 
Have  ever  since  me  kept  in  cruell  bands. 
So,  Ladie,  now  to  you  I  doo  complaine, 
Against  your  eies,  that  justice  I  may  gaine. 


SFENSER  103 

XXV 

How  long  shall  this  lyke  dying  lyfe  endure, 

And  know  no  end  of  her  owne  mysery, 

But  wast  and  weare  away  in  termes  unsure, 

Twixt  feare  and  hope  depending  doubtfully  ! 

Yet  better  were  attonce  to  let  me  die,  5 

And  shew  the  last  ensample  of  your  pride ; 

Then  to  torment  me  thus  with  cruelty, 

To  prove  your  powre,  which  I  too  well  have  tride. 

But  yet  if  in  your  hardned  brest  ye  hide 

A  close  intent  at  last  to  shew  me  grace ;  10 

Then  all  the  woes  and  wrecks  which  I  abide. 

As  meanes  of  blisse  I  gladly  wil  embrace  ; 

And  wish  that  more  and  greater  they  might  be. 
That  greater  meede  at  last  may  turne  to  mee. 

XXXIV 

Lyke  as  a  ship,  that  through  the  Ocean  wyde, 

By  conduct  of  some  star,  doth  make  her  way ; 

Whenas  a  storme  hath  dimd  her  trusty  guyde. 

Out  of  her  course  doth  wander  far  astray  ! 

So  I,  whose  star,  that  wont  with  her  bright  ray  5 

Me  to  direct,  with  cloudes  is  over-cast, 

Doe  wander  now,  in  darknesse  and  dismay, 

Through  hidden  perils  round  about  me  plast ; 

Yet  hope  I  well  that,  when  this  storme  is  past, 

My  Helice,  the  loadstar  of  my  lyfe,  10 

Will  shine  again,  and  looke  on  me  at  last. 

With  lovely  light  to  cleare  my  cloudy  grief, 

Till  then  I  wander  carefujl,  comfortlesse, 

In  secret  sorow,  and  sad  pensivenesse. 


I04  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

LXVII 

Lyke  as  a  huntsman  after  weary  chace, 
Seeing  the  game  from  him  escapt  away, 
Sits  downe  to  rest  him  in  some  shady  place, 
With  panting  hounds  beguiled  of  their  prey  : 
So,  after  long  pursuit  and  vaine  assay, 
When  I  all  weary  had  the  chace  forsooke, 
The  gentle  dear  returned  the  selfe-same  way, 
Thinking  to  quench  her  thirst  at  the  next  brooke : 
There  she,  beholding  me  with  mylder  looke, 
Sought  not  to  fly,  but  fearlessee  still  did  bide ; 
Till  I  in  hand  her  yet  halfe  trembling  tooke, 
And  with  her  owne  goodwill  hir  fyrmely  tyde. 
Strange  thing,  me  seemed,  to  see  a  beast  so  wyld, 
So  goodly  wonne,  with  her  owne  will  beguyld. 

LXXV 

One  day  I  wrote  her  name  upon  the  strand ; 
But  came  the  waves,  and  washed  it  away  : 
Agayne,  I  wrote  it  with  a  second  hand ; 
But  came  the  tyde,  and  made  my  paynes  his  pray. 
Vayne  man,  sayd  she,  that  doest  in  vaine  assay 
A  mortall  thing  so  to  immortalize ; 
For  I  my  selve  shall  lyke  to  this  decay. 
And  eek  my  name  bee  wyped  out  lykewize. 
Not  so,  quod  I ;  let  baser  things  devize 
To  dy  in  dust,  but  you  shall  live  by  fame  : 
My  verse  your  vertues  rare  shall  Eternize, 
And  in  the  hevens  wryte  your  glorious  name. 
Where,  whenas  death  shall  all  the  world  subdew. 
Our  love  shall  live,  and  later  life  renew. 


RICHARD    HOOKER 

(1554-1600) 

THE   LAWS   OF   ECCLESIASTICAL   POLITY 
T/ie  Law  of  Nations 

Now  besides  that  law  which  simply  concerneth  men  as 
men,  and  that  which  belongeth  unto  them  as  they  are 
men  linked  with  others  in  some  form  of  politic  society, 
there  is  a  third  kind  of  law  which  toucheth  all  such  sev- 
eral bodies  politic,  so  far  forth  as  one  of  them  hath  pub-  5 
Kc  commerce  with  another.  And  this  third  is  the  law  of 
nations.  Between  men  and  beasts  there  is  no  possibihty 
of  sociable  communion ;  because  the  well-spring  of  that 
communion  is  a  natural  delight  which  man  hath  to  trans- 
fuse from  himself  unto  others,  and  to  receive  from  others  10 
into  himself,  especially  those  things  wherein  the  excel- 
lency of  his  kind  doth  most  consist.  The  chiefest  instru- 
ment of  human  communion  therefore  is  speech,  because 
thereby  we  impart  mutually  one  to  another  the  conceits 
of  our  reasonable  understanding.  And  for  that  cause  15 
seeing  beasts  are  not  hereof  capable,  forasmuch  as  with 
them  we  can  use  no  such  conference,  they  being  in 
degree,  although  above  other  creatures  on  earth  to  whom 
nature  hath  denied  sense,  yet  lower  than  to  be  socia- 
ble companions  of  man  to  whom  nature  hath  given  rea-  20 
son;  it  is  of  Adam  said  that  amongst  the  htdiSXs  He  found 
not  for  himself  any  meet  cojnpanion.  Civil  society  doth 
more  content  the  nature  of  man  than  any  private  kind  of 

105 


I06  FROM   CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

solitary  living,  because  in  society  this  good  of  mutual  par- 
ticipation is  so  much  larger  than  otherwise.     Herewith  25 
notwithstanding  we  are   satisfied,  but  we  covert   (if  it 
might  be)  to  have  a  kind  of  society  and  fellowship  even 
with  all  mankind.     Which  thing  Socrates  intending  to 
signify  professed  himself  a  citizen,  not  of  this  or  that 
commonwealth,  but  of  the  world.     And  an  effect  of  that  30 
very  natural  desire  in  us,  (a  manifest  token  that  we  wish 
after  a  sort  an  universal  fellowship  with  all  men,)  appear- 
eth  by  the  wonderful  delight  men  have,  some  to  visit 
foreign  countries,  some  to  discover  nations  not  heard  of 
in  former  ages,  we  all  to  know  the  affairs  and  dealings  of  35 
other  people,  yea  to  be  in  league  of  amity  with  them  : 
and  this  not  only  for  traffic's  sake,  or  to  the  end  that 
when  many  are  confederated  each  may  make  the  other 
the  more  strong,  but  for  such  cause  also  as  moved  the 
Queen  of  Saba  to  visit  Salomon  ;  and  in  a  word,  because  40 
nature  doth  presume  that  how  many  men  there  are  in  the 
world,  so  many  Gods  as  it  were  there  are,  or  at  leastwise 
such  they  should  be  towards  men. 

Touching  laws  which  are  to  serve  men  in  this  behalf; 
even  as  those  laws  of  reason,  which  (man  retaining  his  45 
original  integrity)  had  been  sufficient  to  direct  each  par- 
ticular person  in  all  his  affairs  and  duties,  are  not  suf- 
ficient but  require  the  access  of  other  laws,  now  that 
man  and  his  offspring  are  grown  thus  corrupt  and  sinful ; 
again,  as  those  laws  of  polity  and  regiment,  which  would  50 
have  ser\'ed  men  living  in  public  society  together  with 
that  harmless  disposition  which  then  they  should  have 
had,  are  not  able  now  to  serve,  when  men's  iniquity  is  so 
hardly  restrained  within  any  tolerable  bounds  :    in  like 
manner,  the  national  laws  of  mutual  commerce  between  55 
societies  of  that  former  and  better  quality  might  have 


HOOKER  107 

been  other  than  now,  when  nations  are  so  prone  to  offer 
violence,  injury,  and  wrong.  Hereupon  hath  grown  in 
every  of  these  three  kinds  that  distinction  between  Pri- 
mary and  Secondary  laws ;  the  one  grounded  upon  sin-  60 
cere,  the  other  built  upon  depraved  nature.  Primary 
laws  of  nations  are  such  as  concern  embassage,  such  as 
belong  to  the  courteous  entertainment  of  foreigners  and 
strangers,  such  as  serve  for  commodious  traffic,  and  the 
like.  Secondary  laws  in  the  same  kind  are  such  as  this  65 
present  unquiet  world  is  most  familiarly  acquainted  with  ; 
I  mean  laws  of  arms,  which  yet  are  much  better  known 
than  kept.  But  what  matter  the  law  of  nations  doth  con- 
tain I  omit  to  search. 

The  strength  and  virtue  of  that  law  is  such  that  no  par-  70 
ticular  nation  can  lawfully  prejudice  the  same  by  any 
their  several  laws  and  ordinances,  more  than  a  man  by 
his  private  resolutions  the  law  of  the  whole  common- 
wealth or  state  wherein  he  liveth.    For  as  civil  law,  being 
the  act  of  the  whole  body  politic,  doth  therefore  overrule  75 
each  several  part  of  the  same  body ;  so  there  is  no  rea- 
son that  any  one  commonwealth  of  itself  should  to  the 
prejudice  of  another  annihilate  that  whereupon  the  world 
hath  agreed.     For  which  cause,  the  Lacedemonians  for- 
bidding all  access  of  strangers  into  their  coasts  are  in  80 
that  respect  both  by  Josephus  and  Theodoret  deservedly 
blamed,  as  being  enemies  to  that  hospitality  which  for 
common  humanity's  sake  all  the  nations  on  earth  should 
embrace. 

Now  as  there  is  great  cause  of  communion,  and  conse-  85 
quently  of  laws   for  the  maintainence   of  communion, 
amongst  nations ;  so  amongst  nations  Christian  the  like 
in  regard  even  of  Christianity  hath  been  always  judged 
needful. 


I08  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

And  in  this  kind  of  correspondence  amongst  nations  90 
the  force  of  general  councils  doth  stand.     For  as  one 
and  the  same  law  divine,  whereof  in  the  next  place  we 
are  to  speak,  is  unto  all  Christian  churches  a  rule  for  the 
chiefest  things,  by  means  whereof  they  all  in  that  respect 
make  one  Church,  as  having  all  but  One  Lord,  one  faith,  95 
undone  baptism :  so  the  urgent  necessity  of  mutual  com- 
munion for  preservation  of  our  unity  in  these  things,  as 
also  for  order  in  some  other  things  convenient  to  be 
everywhere  uniformly  kept,  maketh  it  requisite  that  the 
Church  of  God  here  on  earth  have  her  laws  of  spiritual  100 
commerce  between  Christian   nations ;    laws   by  virtue 
whereof  all  churches  may  enjoy  freely  the  use  of  those 
reverend,  religious,  and  sacred  consultations,  which  are 
termed  councils  general.     A  thing  whereof  God's  own 
blessed  Spirit  was  the  author ;  a  thing  practiced  by  the  105 
holy  Apostles  themselves ;  a  thing  always  afterwards  kept 
and  observed  throughout  the  world ;  a  thing  never  other- 
wise than  most  highly  esteemed  of,  till  pride,  ambition, 
and  tyranny  began  by  factious  and  vile  endeavours  to 
abuse    that    divine   invention    unto    the   furtherance   of  no 
wicked   purposes.      But   as   the  just   authority  of  civil 
courts  and  parliaments  is  not  therefore  to  be  abolished, 
because  sometime  there  is  cunning  used  to  frame  them 
according  to  the  private  intents  of  men  overpotent  in  the 
commonwealth;  so  the  grievous  abuse  which  hath  been  115 
of  councils  should  rather  cause  men  to  study  how  so  gra- 
cious a  thing  may  again  be  reduced  to  that  first  perfec- 
tion, than  in  regard  of  stains  and   blemishes  sithence 
growing  to  be  held  for  ever  in  extreme  disgrace. 

To  speak  of  this  matter  as  the  cause  requireth  would  lao 
require  very  long  discourse.     All  I  will  presently  say  is 
this.     Whether  it  be   for  the  finding  out  of  any  thing 


MOOKEk  109 

whereunto  divine  law  bindeth  us,  but  yet  in  such  sort  that 
men  are  not  thereof  on  all  sides  resolved ;  or  for  the  set- 
ting down  of  some  uniform  judgment  to  stand  touching  125 
such  things,  as  being  neither  way  matters  of  necessity,  are 
notwithstanding  offensive  and  scandalous  when  there  is 
open  opposition  about  them  ;  be  it  for  the  ending  of 
strifes  touching  matters  of  Christian  belief,  wherein  the 
one  part  may  seem  to  have  probable  cause  of  dissenting  130 
from  the  other ;  or  be  it  concerning  matters  of  polity, 
order  and  regiment  in  the  church  ;  I  nothing  doubt  but 
that  Christian  men  should  much  better  frame  themselves 
to  those  heavenly  precepts,  which  our  Lord  and  Saviour 
with  so  great  instancy  gave  as  concerning  peace  and  135 
unity,  if  we  did  all  concur  in  desire  to  have  the  use  of 
ancient  councils  again  renewed,  rather  than  these  pro- 
ceedings continued,  which  either  make  all  contentions 
endless,  or  bring  them  to  one  only  determination,  and 
that  of  all  other  the  worst,  which  is  by  sword.  140 


Concerning  faith,  the  principal  object  whereof  is  that 
eternal  verity  which  hath  discovered  the  treasures  of 
hidden  wisdom  in  Christ ;  concerning  hope,  the  highest 
object  whereof  is  that  everlasting  goodness  which  in 
Christ  doth  quicken  the  dead ;  concerning  charity,  the  145 
final  object  whereof  is  that  incomprehensible  beauty  which 
shineth  in  the  countenance  of  Christ  the  Son  of  the  living 
God  :  concerning  these  virtues,  the  first  of  which  begin- 
ning here  with  a  weak  apprehension  of  things  not  seen, 
endeth  with  the  intuitive  vision  of  God  in  the  world  to  150 
come ;  the  second  beginning  here  with  a  trembling  ex- 
pectation of  things  far  removed  and  as  yet  but  only  heard 
of,  endeth  with  real  and  actual  fruition  of  that  which  no 


no  FROM  CHAUCER   TO  ARNOLD 

tongue  can  express  ;  the  third  beginning  here  with  a  weak 
inclination  of  heart  towards  him  unto  whom  we  are  not  155 
able  to  approach,  endeth  with  endless  union,  the  mystery 
whereof  is  higher  than  the  reach  of  the  thoughts  of  men ; 
concerning  that  faith,  hope,  and  charity,  without  which 
there  can  be  no  salvation,  was  there  ever  any  mention 
made  saving  only  in  that  law  which  God  himself  hath  160 
from  heaven  revealed?  There  is  not  in  the  world  a 
syllable  muttered  with  certain  truth  concerning  any  of 
these  three,  more  than  hath  been  supernaturally  received 
from  the  mouth  of  the  eternal  God. 

Laws  therefore  concerning  these  things  are  supemat- 165 
ural,  both  in  respect  of  the  manner  of  delivering  them, 
which  is  divine ;  and  also  in  regard  of  the  things  deliv- 
ered, which  are  such  as  have  not  in  nature  any  cause  from 
which  they  flow,  but  were  by  the  voluntary  appointment 
of  God  ordained  besides  the  course  of  nature,  to  rectify  170 
natures  obliquity  withal. 


Wherefore  that  here  we  may  briefly  end  :  of  Law  there 
can  be  no  less  acknowledged  than  that  her  seat  is  the 
bosom  of  God,  her  voice  the  harmony  of  the  world  ;  all 
things  in  heaven  and  earth  do  her  homage,  the  very  least  175 
as  feeling  her  care,  and  the  greatest  as  not  exempted  from 
her  power ;  both  Angels  and  men  and  creatures  of  what 
condition  soever,  though  each  in  different  sort  and  man- 
ner, yet  all  with  uniform  consent,  admiring  her  as  the 
mother  of  their  peace  and  joy.  180 


CHRISTOPHER   MARLOWE 

(1564— 1593) 

THE  JEW   OF   MALTA 

ACT  I 

Scene  I. —  Barabas  discovered  in  his  Counting-house,  with 
Heaps  of  Gold  before  him 

Bar.    So  that  of  thus  much  that  return  was  made  • 
And  of  the  third  part  of  the  Persian  ships, 
There  was  the  venture  summed  and  satisfied. 
As  for  those  Sabans,  and  the  men  of  Uz, 
That  bought  my  Spanish  oils  and  wines  of  Greece,  5 

Here  have  I  purst  their  paltry  silverlings. 
Fie ;  what  a  trouble  'tis  to  count  this  trash. 
Well  fare  the  Arabians,  who  so  richly  pay 
The  things  they  traffic  for  with  wedge  of  gold. 
Whereof  a  man  may  easily  in  a  day  10 

Tell  that  which  may  maintain  him  all  his  life. 
The  needy  groom  that  never  fingered  groat, 
Would  make  a  miracle  of  thus  much  coin  : 
But  he  whose  steel-barred  coffers  are  crammed  full, 
And  all  his  lifetime  hath  been  tired,  15 

Wearj'ing  his  fingers'  ends  with  telling  it. 
Would  in  his  age  be  loth  t6  labour  so, 
And  for  a  pound  to  sweat  himself  to  death. 
Give  me  the  merchants  of  the  Indian  mines, 
That  trade  in  metal  of  the  purest  mould;  20 

III 


112  FROM   CHAUCER   TO  ARNOLD 

The  wealthy  Moor,  that  in  the  eastern  rocks 

Without  control  can  pick  his  riches  up, 

And  in  his  house  heap  pearls  like  pebble-stones. 

Receive  them  free,  and  sell  them  by  the  weight ; 

Bags  of  fiery  opals,  sapphires,  and  amethysts,  25 

Jacinths,  hard  topaz,  grass-green  emeralds. 

Beauteous  rubies,  sparkling  diamonds. 

And  seld-seen  costly  stones  of  so  great  price, 

As  one  of  them  indifferently  rated, 

And  of  a  carat  of  this  quantity,  30 

May  serve  in  peril  of  calamity 

To  ransom  great  kings  from  captivity. 

This  is  the  ware  wherein  consists  my  wealth  ; 

And  thus  methinks  should  men  of  judgment  frame 

Their  means  of  traffic  from  the  vulgar  trade,  35 

And  as  their  wealth  increaseth,  so  inclose 

Infinite  riches  in  a  little  room. 

But  now  how  stands  the  wind? 

Into  what  corner  peers  my  halcyon's  bill? 

Ha  !  to  the  east?  yes  :  see,  how  stand  the  vanes?  40 

East  and  by  south  :  why  then  I  hope  my  ships 

I  sent  for  Egypt  and  the  bordering  isles 

Are  gotten  up  by  Nilus'  winding  banks  : 

Mine  argosies  from  Alexandria, 

Loaden  with  spice  and  silks,  now  under  sail,  45 

Are  smoothly  gliding  down  by  Candy  shore 

To  Malta,  through  our  Mediterranean  sea. 

But  wha  comes  here  ? 

Enter  a  Merchant 

How  now? 
Merck.   Barabas,  thy  ships  are  safe, 
Riding  in  Malta-road  :  and  all  the  merchants  50 


MARLOWE  113 

With  other  merchants  are  safe  arrived, 
And  have  sent  me  to  know  whether  yourself 
Will  come  and  custom  them. 

Bar.   The  ships  are  safe  thou  say'st,  and  richly  fraught. 

Merch.   They  are.  55 

Bar.   Why  then  go  bid  them  come  ashore, 
And  bring  with  them  their  bills  of  entry  : 
I  hope  our  credit  in  the  custom-house 
AVill  serve  as  well  as  I  were  present  there. 
Go  send  'em  threescore  camels,  thirty  mules, 
And  twenty  waggons  to  bring  up  the  ware.  60 

But  art  thou  master  in  a  ship  of  mine. 
And  is  thy  credit  not  enough  for  that  ? 

Merch.   The  very  custom  barely  comes  to  more 
Than  many  merchants  of  the  town  are  worth, 
And  therefore  far  exceeds  my  credit,  sir.  65 

Bar.    Go  tell  'em  the  Jew  of  Malta  sent  thee,  man  : 
Tush  !  who  amongst  'em  knows  not  Barabas  ? 

Merch.    I  go. 

Bar.   So  then,  there's  somewhat  come. 
Sirrah,  which  of  my  ships  art  thou  master  of? 

Merch.   Of  the  Sperafiza,  sir. 

Bar.   And  saw'st  thou  not  70 

Mine  argosy  at  Alexandria? 

Thou  could'st  not  come  from  Egypt,  or  by  Caire, 
But  at  the  entry  there  into  the  sea. 
Where  Nilus  pays  his  tribute  to  the  main, 
Thou  needs  must  sail  by  Alexandria.  75 

Alerch.    I  neither  saw  them,  nor  inquired  of  them  : 
But  this  we  heard  some  of  our  seamen  say. 
They  wondered  how  you  durst  with  so  much  wealth 
Trust  such  a  crazed  vessel,  and  so  far. 

Bar.   Tush,  they  are  wise  !  I  know  her  and  her  strength.  80 
I 


114  FROM  CHAUCER   TO  ARNOLD 

But  go,  go  thou  thy  ways,  discharge  thy  ship, 

And  bid  my  factor  bring  his  loading  in.  \^Exit  Merch. 

And  yet  I  wonder  at  this  argosy. 

Enter  a  second  Merchant 

2d  Merch.   Thine  argosy  from  Alexandria, 
Know,  Barabas,  doth  ride  in  Malta-road,  85 

Laden  with  riches,  and  exceeding  store 
Of  Persian  silks,  of  gold,  and  orient  pearl. 

Bar.   How  chance  you  came  not  with  those  other  ships 
That  sailed  by  Egypt? 

2d  Merch.   Sir,  we  saw  'em  not.  90 

Bar.   Belike  they  coasted  round  by  Candy  shore 
About  their  oils,  or  other  businesses. 
But  'twas  ill  done  of  you  to  come  so  far 
Without  the  aid  or  conduct  of  their  ships. 

2d  Merch.   Sir,  we  were  wafted  by  a  Spanish  fleet,  95 

That  never  left  us  till  within  a  league, 
That  had  the  galleys  of  the  Turk  in  chase. 

Bar.   O  !  —  they  were  going  up  to  Sicily :  — 
Well,  go, 

And  bid  the  merchants  and  my  men  despatch  100 

And  come  ashore,  and  see  the  fraught  discharged. 

2d  Merch.   I  go.  {^Exit. 

Bar.   Thus  trowls  our  fortune  in  by  land  and  sea. 
And  thus  are  we  on  every  side  enriched : 
These  are  the  blessings  promised  to  the  Jews,  105 

And  herein  was  old  Abram's  happiness  : 
What  more  may  heaven  do  for  earthly  man 
Than  thus  to  pour  out  plenty  in  their  laps, 
Ripping  the  bowels  of  the  earth  for  them. 
Making  the  seas  their  servants,  and  the  winds  no 

To  drive  their  substance  with  successful  blasts  ? 


MARLOWE  115 

'\\nio  hateth  me  but  for  my  happiness? 

Or  who  is  honoured  now  but  for  his  wealth? 

Rather  had  I  a  Jew  be  hated  thus, 

Than  pitied  in  a  Christian  poverty  :  115 

For  I  can  see  no  fruits  in  all  their  faith, 

But  malice,  falsehood,  and  excessive  pride. 

Which  methinks  fits  not  their  profession. 

Haply  some  hapless  man  hath  conscience. 

And  for  his  conscience  lives  in  beggary.  120 

They  say  we  are  a  scattered  nation  : 

I  cannot  tell,  but  we  have  scambled  up 

More  wealth  by  far  than  those  that  brag  of  faith. 

There's  Kirriah  Jairim,  the  great  Jew  of  Greece, 

Obed  in  Bairseth,  Nones  in  Portugal,  125 

Myself  in  Malta,  some  in  Italy, 

Many  in  France,  and  wealthy  ever}'  one ; 

Ay,  wealthier  far  than  any  Christian. 

I  must  confess  we  come  not  to  be  kings ; 

That's  not  our  fault :  alas,  our  number's  few,  130 

And  crowns  come  either  by  succession. 

Or  urged  by  force  ;  and  nothing  violent 

Oft  have  I  heard  tell,  can  be  permanent. 

Give  us  a  peaceful  rule,  make  Christians  kings. 

That  thirst  so  much  for  principality.  135 

I  have  no  charge,  nor  many  children, 

But  one  sole  daughter,  whom  I  hold  as  dear 

As  Agammennon  did  his  Iphigen : 

And  all  I  have  is  hers.     But  who  comes  here? 

Enter  three  Jews 

1st  Jew.   Tush,  tell  not  me  ;  'twas  done  of  policy.  140 

2d  Jew.    Come,  therefore,  let  us  go  to  Barabas, 
For  he  can  counsel  best  in  these  affairs ; 


Il6  FROM  CHAUCER   TO  ARNOLD 

And  here  he  comes. 

Bar.   Why,  how  now,  countrymen  ? 
Why  flock  you  thus  to  me  in  multitudes?  145 

What  accident's  betided  to  the  Jews  ? 

1st  Jew.   A  fleet  of  warlike  galleys,  Barabas, 
Are  come  from  Turkey,  and  lie  in  our  road  : 
And  they  this  day  sit  in  the  council-house 
To  entertain  them  and  their  embassy.  150 

Bar.   Why,  let  'em  come,  so  they  come  not  to  war ; 
Or  let  'em  war,  so  we  be  conquerors  — 
Nay,  let  'em  combat,  conquer,  and  kill  all ! 
(Aside)    So  they  spare  me,  my  daughter,  and  my  wealth. 

1st  Jew.   Were  it  for  confirmation  of  a  league,  155 

They  would  not  come  in  warlike  manner  thus. 

2d  Jew.    I  fear  their  coming  will  afilict  us  all. 

Bar.   Fond  men  !  what  dream  you  of  their  multitudes? 
What  need  they  treat  of  peace  that  are  in  league  ? 
The  Turks  and  those  of  Malta  are  in  league.  160 

Tut,  tut,  there  is  some  other  matter  in't. 

1st  Jew.   Why,  Barabas,  they  come  for  peace  or  war. 

Bar.   Haply  for  neither,  but  to  pass  along 
Towards  Venice  by  the  Adriatic  sea ; 

With  whom  they  have  attempted  many  times,  165 

But  never  could  effect  their  stratagem. 

3d  Jew.   And  very  wisely  said.     It  may  be  so. 

2d  Jew.   But  there's  a  meeting  in  the  senate-house, 
And  all  the  Jews  in  Malta  must  be  there. 

Bar.    Hum  ;  all  the  Jews  in  Malta  must  be  there  ?         170 
Ay,  like  enough,  why  then  let  every  man 
Provide  him,  and  be  there  for  fashion-sake. 
If  anything  shall  there  concern  our  state, 
Assure  yourselves  I'll  look  {aside)  unto  myself. 

1st  Jew.    I  know  you  will.     Well,  brethren,  let  us  go.     175 


MARLOWE  117 

2d  Jew.    Let's  take  our  leaves.     Farewell,  good  Barabas. 

Bar.    Farewell,  Zaareth ;  farewell,  Temainte. 

\_Exeunt  Jews. 
And,  Barabas,  now  search  this  secret  out ; 
Summon  thy  senses,  call  thy  wits  together : 
These  silly  men  mistake  the  matter  clean.  180 

Long  to  the  Turk  did  Malta  contribute ; 
Which  tribute,  all  in  policy  I  fear. 
The  Turks  have  let  increase  to  such  a  sum 
As  all  the  wealth  of  Malta  cannot  pay; 

And  now  by  that  advantage  thinks  beUke  185 

To  seize  upon  the  town  :  ay,  that  he  seeks. 
Howe'er  the  world  go,  I'll  make  sure  for  one, 
And  seek  in  time  to  intercept  the  worst. 
Warily  guarding  that  which  I  ha'  got. 
Ego  mihimet  sum  se7nper  proximus. 
Why,  let  'em  enter,  let  'em  take  the  town.  \_Exit, 

Scene  II.  —  Inside  the  Council-house 

Enter  Ferneze,  Governor  of  Malta,  Knights,  and  Ofificers  ; 
met  by  Calymath  and  Bassoes  of  the  Turk 

,'   Fern.    Now,  Bassoes,  what  demand  you  at  our  hands? 

1st  Bas.    Know,  Knights  of  Malta,  that  we  came  from 
Rhodes, 
From  Cyprus,  Candy,  and  those  other  Isles 
That  lie  betwixt  the  Mediterranean  seas. 

Fern.   What's  Cyprus,  Candy,  and  those  other  Isles  5 

To  us,  or  Malta?     What  at  our  hands  demand  ye? 

Cal.   The  ten  years'  tribute  that  remains  unpaid. 

Fern.   Alas  !  my  lord,  the  sum  is  over-great, 
I  hope  your  highness  will  consider  us. 

Cal.    I  wish,  grave  governor,  'twere  in  my  power  10 


Il8  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

To  favour  you,  but  'tis  ray  father's  cause, 
Wherein  I  may  not,  nay,  I  dare  not  dally. 

Fern.  Then  give  us  leave,  great  Selim  Calymath. 

[  Consults  apart  7viih  the  Knights. 

Cat.   Stand  all  aside,  and  let  the  knights  determine. 
And  send  to  keep  our  galleys  under  sail,  15 

For  happily  we  shall  not  tarry  here ; 
Now,  governor,  say,  how  are  you  resolved  ? 

Fern.   Thus  :  since  your  hard  conditions  are  such 
That  you  will  needs  have  ten  years'  tribute  past. 
We  may  have  time  to  make  collection  20 

Amongst  the  inhabitants  of  Malta  for't. 

ist  Bass.   That's  more  than  is  in  our  commission. 

Cal.   What,  Callipine  !  a  little  courtesy. 
I^t's  know  their  time,  perhaps  it  is  not  long ; 
And  'tis  more  kingly  to  obtain  by  peace  25 

Than  to  enforce  conditions  by  constraint. 
What  respite  ask  you,  governor? 

Fern.    But  a  month. 

Cal.   We  grant  a  month,  but  see  you  keep  your  promise. 
Now  launch  our  galleys  back  again  to  sea,  30 

Where  we'll  attend  the  respite  you  have  ta'en. 
And  for  the  money  send  our  messenger. 
Farewell,  great  governor  and  brave  Knights  of  Malta. 

Fern.   And  all  good  fortune  wait  on  Calymath  ! 

\_Exeunt  Calymath  and  Bassoes. 
Go  one  and  call  those  Jews  of  Malta  hither :  35 

Were  they  not  summoned  to  appear  to-day? 

OJ^.  They  were,  my  lord,  and  here  they  come. 

Enter  Barabas  and  three  Jews 

1st  Knight.   Have  you  determined  what  to  say  to  them  ? 
Fern.   Yes  ;  give  me  leave  :  —  and,  Hebrews,  now  come 
near. 


MARLOWE  119 

From  the  Emperor  of  Turkey  is  arrived  40 

Great  Selim  Calymath,  his  highness'  son, 

To  levy  of  us  ten  years'  tribute  past ; 

Now  then,  here  know  that  it  concerneth  us  — 

Bar.  Then,  good  my  lord,  to  keep  your  quiet  still, 
Your  lordship  shall  do  well  to  let  them  have  it.  45 

Fern.   Soft,  Barabas,  there's  more  'longs  to't  than  so. 
To  what  this  ten  years'  tribute  will  amount. 
That  we  have  cast,  but  cannot  compass  it 
By  reason  of  the  wars  that  robbed  our  store ; 
And  therefore  are  we  to  request  your  aid.  50 

Bar.   Alas,  my  lord,  we  are  no  soldiers  : 
And  what's  our  aid  against  so  great  a  prince  ? 

ist  Knight.   Tut,  Jew,  we  know  thou  art  no  soldier  j 
Thou  art  a  merchant  and  a  moneyed  man. 
And  'tis  thy  money,  Barabas,  we  seek.  55 

Bar.    How,  my  lord  !  my  money  ? 

Fern.   Thine  and  the  rest. 
For,  to  be  short,  amongst  you't  must  be  had. 

istjew.   Alas,  my  lord,  the  most  of  us  are  poor. 

Fern.  Then  let  the  rich  increase  your  portions.  60 

Bar.   Are  strangers  with  your  tribute  to  be  taxed  ? 

2d  Knight.    Have    strangers   leave  with  us   to  get  their 
wealth  ? 
Then  let  them  with  us  contribute. 

Bar.    How  !   equally  ? 

Fern.    No,  Jew,  like  infidels.  65 

For  through  our  sufferance  of  your  hateful  lives, 
Who  stand  accursed  in  the  sight  of  Heaven, 
These  taxes  and  afflictions  are  befallen, 
And  therefore  thus  we  are  determined 
Read  there  the  articles  of  our  decrees.  70 

Officer  {reads).   "First,  the  tribute-money  of  the  Turks 


I20  FROM   CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

shall  all  be  levied  amongst  the  Jews,  and  each  of  them  to 
pay  one  half  of  his  estate." 

Bar.    How,  half  his  estate?     {Aside)  I  hope  you  mean 
not  mine. 

Fern.   Read  on.  75 

Off.  {reading).    "  Secondly,  he  that  denies  to  pay  shall 
straight  become  a  Christian." 

Bar.   How  !  a  Christian  ?  {Aside)  Hum,  what's  here  to 
do? 

Off.  {reading).   "  Lastly,  he  that  denies  this  shall  abso- 
lutely lose  all  he  has."  80 

T/ie  three  Jews.    O,  my  lord,  we  will  give  half. 

Bar.   O  earth-mettled  villains,  and  no  Hebrews  born  ! 
And  will  you  basely  thus  submit  yourselves 
To  leave  your  goods  to  their  arbitrament? 

Fern.    Why,  Barabas,  wilt  thou  be  christened?  85 

Bar.   No,  governor,  I  will  be  convertite. 

Fern.   Then  pay  thy  half. 

Bar.   Why,  know  you  what  you  did  by  this  device  ? 
Half  of  my  substance  is  a  city's  wealth. 
Governor,  it  was  not  got  so  easily.  90 

Nor  will  I  part  so  slightly  therewithal. 

Fern.   Sir,  half  is  the  penalty  of  our  decree, 
Either  pay  that  or  we  will  seize  on  all. 

Bar.    Corpo  di  Dio!  stay  !  you  shall  have  the  half; 
Let  me  be  used  but  as  my  brethren  are.  95 

Fern.   No,  Jew,  thou  hast  denied  the  articles. 
And  now  it  cannot  be  recalled. 

\_Exeunt  Officers  on  a  sign  from  Ferneze. 

Bar.   Will  you  then  steal  my  goods? 
Is  theft  the  ground  of  your  religion? 

Fern.    No,  Jew,  we  take  particularly  thine  100 

To  save  the  ruin  of  a  multitude  : 


MARLOWE  121 

And  better  one  want  for  the  common  good 

Than  many  perish  for  a  private  man  : 

Yet,  Barabas,  we  will  not  banish  thee, 

But  here  in  Malta,  where  thou  gott'st  thy  wealth,  105 

Live  still ;  and,  if  thou  canst,  get  more. 

Bar.    Christians,  what  or  how  can  I  multiply? 
Of  naught  is  nothing  made. 

J  St  Knight.   From  naught  at  first  thou  cam'st  to   little 
wealth. 
From  little  unto  more,  from  more  to  most :  110 

If  your  first  curse  fall  heavy  on  thy  head, 
And  make  thee  poor  and  scorned  of  all  the  world, 
'Tis  not  our  fault,  but  thy  inherent  sin. 

Bar.    What,  bring  you  Scripture  to  confirm  your  wrongs? 
Preach  me  not  out  of  my  possessions.  115 

Some  Jews  are  wicked,  as  all  Christians  are : 
But  say  the  tribe  that  I  descended  of 
Were  all  in  general  cast  away  from  sin. 
Shall  I  be  tried  by  their  transgression? 

The  man  that  dealeth  righteously  shall  live :  120 

And  which  of  you  can  charge  me  otherwise  ? 

Fern.    Out,  wretched  Barabas. 
Sham'st  thou  not  thus  to  justify  thyself. 
As  if  we  knew  not  thy  profession  ? 

If  thou  rely  upon  thy  righteousness,  125 

Be  patient  and  thy  riches  will  increase. 
Excess  of  wealth  is  cause  of  covetousness  ; 
And  covetousness,  O,  'tis  a  monstrous  sin. 

Bar.   Ay,  but  theft  is  worse  :    tush  !  take  not  from  me 
then. 
For  that  is  theft !  and  if  you  rob  me  thus,  130 

I  must  be  forced  to  steal  and  compass  more. 

1st  Knight.   Grave  governor,  listen  not  to  his  exclaims. 


122  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

Convert  his  mansion  to  a  nunnery ; 
His  house  will  harbour  many  holy  nuns. 

Fern.   It  shall  be  so.  135 

Reenter  Officers 

Now,  officers,  have  you  done? 

Off.   Ay,  my  lord,  we  have  seized  upon  the  goods 
And  wares  of  Barabas,  which  being  valued, 
Amount  to  more  than  all  the  wealth  of  Malta. 
And  of  the  other  we  have  seized  half.  140 

Fern.   Then  we'll  take  order  for  the  residue. 

Bar.   Well  then,  my  lord,  say,  are  you  satisfied  ? 
You  have  my  goods,  my  money,  and  my  wealth, 
My  ships,  my  store,  and  all  that  I  enjoyed ; 
And,  having  all,  you  can  request  no  more ;  145 

Unless  your  unrelenting  flinty  hearts 
Suppress  all  pity  in  your  stony  breasts, 
And  now  shall  move  you  to  bereave  ray  life. 

Fern.   No,  Barabas,  to  stain  our  hands  with  blood 
Is  far  from  us  and  our  profession.  150 

Bar.   Why,  I  esteem  the  injury  far  less 
To  take  the  lives  of  miserable  men 
Than  be  the  causers  of  their  misery. 
You  have  my  wealth,  the  labor  of  my  life, 
The  comfort  of  mine  age,  my  children's  hope,  155 

And  therefore  ne'er  distinguish  of  the  wrong. 

Fern.    Content  thee,  Barabas,  thou  hast  naught  but 
right. 

Bar.   Your  extreme  right  does  me  exceeding  wrong : 
But  take  it  to  you,  i'  the  devil's  name. 

Fern.   Come,  let  us  in,  and  gather  of  these  goods  160 

The  money  for  this  tribute  of  the  Turk. 

jst  Knight.   'Tis  necessary  that  be  looked  unto  : 


MARLOWE  123 

For  if  we  break  our  day,  we  break  the  league, 
And  that  will  prove  but  simple  policy. 

[^Exeunt  all  except  Bar.\bas  and  the  Jews. 

Bar.   Ay,  policy  !  that's  their  profession,  165 

And  not  simplicity,  as  they  suggest. 
The  plagues  of  Egypt,  and  the  curse  of  Heaven, 
Earth's  barrenness,  and  all  men's  hatred 
Inflict  upon  them,  thou  great  Primus  Motor/ 
And  here  upon  my  knees,  striking  the  earth,  170 

I  ban  their  souls  to  everlasting  pains 
And  extreme  tortures  of  the  fiery  deep. 
That  thus  have  dealt  with  me  in  my  distress. 

istjew.   O  yet  be  patient,  gentle  Barabas. 

Bar.   O  silly  brethren,  born  to  see  this  day  ;  175 

Why  stand  you  thus  unmoved  with  my  laments  ? 
Why  weep  you  not  to  think  upon  my  wrongs  ? 
Why  pine  not  I,  and  die  in  this  distress  ? 

1st  Jew.   Why,  Barabas,  as  hardly  can  we  brook 
The  cruel  handling  of  ourselves  in  this ;  180 

Thou  seest  they  have  taken  half  our  goods. 

Bar.  Why  did  you  yield  to  their  extortion? 
You  were  a  multitude,  and  I  but  one  : 
And  of  me  only  have  they  taken  all. 

1st  Jew.  Yet,  brother  Barabas,  remember  Job.  185 

Bar.   What  tell  you  me  of  Job?     I  wot  his  wealth 
Was  written  thus  :    he  had  seven  thousand  sheep, 
Three  thousand  camels,  and  two  hundred  yoke 
Of  labouring  oxen,  and  five  hundred 

She-asses  :    but  for  every  one  of  those,  190 

Had  they  been  valued  at  indifferent  rate, 
I  had  at  home,  and  in  mine  argosy. 
And  other  ships  that  came  from  Egypt  last. 
As  much  as  would  have  bought  his  beasts  and  him. 


124  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

And  yet  have  kept  enough  to  hve  upon :  195 

So  that  not  he,  but  I  may  curse  the  day, 

Thy  fatal  birth-day,  forlorn  Barabas ; 

And  henceforth  wish  for  an  eternal  night, 

That  clouds  of  darkness  may  inclose  my  flesh, 

And  hide  these  extreme  sorrows  from  mine  eyes :  200 

For  only  I  have  toiled  to  inherit  here 

The  months  of  vanity,  and  loss  of  time, 

And  painful  nights,  have  been  appointed  me. 

2d  Jew.   Good  Barabas,  be  patient. 

Bar.   Ay,  I  pray,  leave  me  in  my  patience.     You,         205 
Were  ne'er  possessed  of  wealth,  are  pleased  with  want ; 
But  give  him  Hberty  at  least  to  mourn, 
That  in  a  field  amidst  his  enemies 
Doth  see  his  soldiers  slain,  himself  disarmed, 
And  knows  no  means  of  his  recovery  :  210 

Ay,  let  me  sorrow  for  this  sudden  chance ; 
'Tis  in  the  trouble  of  my  spirit  I  speak ; 
Great  injuries  are  not  so  soon  forgot. 

1st  Jew.   Come,  let  us  leave  him  ;  in  his  ireful  mood 
Our  words  will  but  increase  his  ecstasy.  215 

2d  Jew.   On,  then  \  but  trust  me,  'tis  a  misery 
To  see  a  man  in  such  affliction.  — 
Farewell,  Barabas  !  \_Exeunt  the  three  Jews. 

Bar.   Ay,  fare  you  well. 
See  the  simphcity  of  these  base  slaves,  aao 

Who,  for  the  villains  have  no  wit  themselves. 
Think  me  to  be  a  senseless  lump  of  clay 
That  will  with  every  water  wash  to  dirt : 
No,  Barabas  is  born  to  better  chance, 

And  framed  of  finer  mould  than  common  men,  225 

That  measure  naught  but  by  the  present  time. 
A  reaching  thought  will  search  his  deepest  wits, 


MARLOWE  125 

And  cast  with  cunning  for  the  time  to  come : 
For  evils  are  apt  to  happen  every  day.  — 

Enter  Abigail 

But  whither  wends  my  beauteous  Abigail  ?  230 

0  !  what  has  made  my  lovely  daughter  sad  ? 
What,  woman  !  moan  not  for  a  little  loss  : 
Thy  father  hath  enough  in  store  for  thee. 

Abig.   Not  for  myself,  but  aged  Barabas  : 
Father,  for  thee  lamenteth  Abigail :  235 

But  I  will  learn  to  leave  these  fruitless  tears, 
And,  urged  thereto  with  my  afflictions. 
With  fierce  exclaims  run  to  the  senate-house, 
And  in  the  senate  reprehend  them  all. 

And  rend  their  hearts  with  tearing  of  my  hair,  240 

Till  they  reduce  the  wrongs  done  to  my  father. 

Bar.   No,  Abigail,  things  past  recovery 
Are  hardly  cured  with  exclamations. 
Be  silent,  daughter,  sufferance  breeds  ease, 
And  time  may  yield  us  an  occasion  245 

Which  on  the  sudden  can  not  serve  the  turn. 
Besides,  my  girl,  think  me  not  all  so  fond 
As  negligently  to  forego  so  much 
Without  provision  for  thyself  and  me  : 

Ten  thousand  portagues,  besides  great  pearls,  250 

Rich  costly  jewels,  and  stones  infinite, 
Fearing  the  worst  of  this  before  it  fell, 

1  closely  hid. 

Abig.   Where,  father? 

Bar.    In  my  house,  my  girl.  255 

Abig.   Then  shall  they  ne'er  be  seen  of  Barabas  : 
For  they  have  seized  upon  thy  house  and  wares. 


126  FROM  CHAUCER   TO  ARNOLD 

Bar.  But  they  will  give  me  leave  once  more,  I  trow, 
To  go  into  my  house. 

Abig.  That  they  may  not :  260 

For  there  I  left  the  governor  placing  nuns, 
Displacing  me  ;  and  of  thy  house  they  mean 
To  make  a  nunnery,  where  none  but  their  own  sect 
Must  enter  in ;  men  generally  barred. 

Bar.   My  gold  !  my  gold  !  and  all  my  wealth  is  gone  !  265 
You  partial  heavens,  have  I  deserved  this  plague  ! 
What,  will  you  thus  oppose  me,  luckless  stars, 
To  make  me  desperate  in  my  poverty? 
And  knowing  me  impatient  in  distress, 
Think  me  so  mad  as  I  will  hang  myself,  270 

That  I  may  vanish  o'er  the  earth  in  air. 
And  leave  no  memory  that  e'er  I  was  ? 
No,  I  will  live ;  nor  loathe  I  this  my  life  : 
And,  since  you  leave  me  in  the  ocean  thus 
To  sink  or  swim,  and  put  me  to  my  shifts,  275 

I'll  rouse  my  senses  and  awake  myself. 
Daughter  !  I  have  it :  thou  perceiv'st  the  plight 
Wherein  these  Christians  have  oppressed  me  : 
Be  ruled  by  me,  for  in  extremity 
We  ought  to  make  bar  of  no  policy.  280 

Abig.   Father,  whate'er  it  be  to  injure  them 
That  have  so  manifestly  wronged  us. 
What  will  not  Abigail  attempt  ? 

Bar.   Why,  so ; 
Then  thus,  thou  told'st  me  they  have  turned  my  house     285 
Into  a  nunnery,  and  some  nuns  are  there  ? 

Abig.   I  did. 

Bar.  Then,  Abigail,  there  must  my  girl 
Entreat  the  abbess  to  be  entertained. 

Abig.    How,  as  a  nun  ?  290 


MARLOWE  127 

Bar.  Ay,  daughter,  for  religion 
Hides  many  mischiefs  from  suspicion. 

Abig.    Ay,  but,  father,  they  will  suspect  me  there. 

Bar.   Let  'em  suspect;  but  be  thou  so  precise 
As  they  may  think  it  done  of  holiness.  295 

Entreat  'em  fair,  and  give  them  friendly  speech, 
And  seem  to  them  as  if  thy  sins  were  great, 
Till  thou  hast  gotten  to  be  entertained. 

Abig.   Thus,  father,  shall  I  much  dissemble. 

Bar.   Tush  !  300 

As  good  dissemble  that  thou  never  mean'st. 
As  first  mean  truth  and  then  dissemble  it, — 
A  counterfeit  profession  is  better 
Than  unseen  hypocrisy. 

Abig.   Well,  father,  say  that  I  be  entertained,  305 

What  then  shall  follow? 

Bar.   This  shall  follow  then ; 
There  have  I  hid,  close  underneath  the  plank 
That  runs  along  the  upper-chamber  floor. 
The  gold  and  jewels  which  I  kept  for  thee.  310 

But  here  they  come  ;  be  cunning,  Abigail. 

Abig.   Then,  father,  go  with  me. 

Bar.    No,  Abigail,  in  this 
It  is  not  necessary  I  be  seen : 

For  I  will  seem  offended  with  thee  for't :  31; 

Be  close,  my  girl,  for  this  must  fetch  my  gold.    \_T7iey  retire. 


128  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

ACT  II 

Scene  I.  —  Before  Barabas's  House,  now  a  Nunnery 

Enter  Barabas  with  a  light 

Bar.  Thus,  like  the  sad  presaging  raven  that  tolls 
The  sick  man's  passport  in  her  hollow  beak, 
And  in  the  shadow  of  the  silent  night 
Doth  shake  contagion  from  her  sable  wings ; 
Vexed  and  tormented  runs  poor  Barabas  5 

With  fatal  curses  towards  these  Christians. 
The  uncertain  pleasures  of  swift-footed  time 
Have  ta'en  their  flight,  and  left  me  in  despair ; 
And  of  my  former  riches  rests  no  more 
But  bare  remembrance,  hke  a  soldier's  scar,  10 

That  has  no  further  comfort  for  his  maim. 
O  thou,  that  with  a  fiery  pillar  led'st 
The  sons  of  Israel  through  the  dismal  shades. 
Light  Abraham's  offspring ;  and  direct  the  hand 
Of  Abigail  this  night ;  or  let  the  day  15 

Turn  to  eternal  darkness  after  this  ! 
No  sleep  can  fasten  on  my  watchful  eyes, 
Nor  quiet  enter  my  distempered  thoughts, 
Till  I  have  answer  of  my  Abigail. 

Enter  Abigail  above 

Abig.    Now  have  I  happily  espied  a  time  so 

To  search  the  plank  my  father  did  appoint ; 
And  here  behold,  unseen,  where  I  have  found 
The  gold,  the  pearls,  and  jewels,  which  he  hid. 

Bar.   Now  I  remember  those  old  women's  words, 
Who  in  my  wealth  would  tell  me  winter's  tales,  95 


MARLOWE  129 

And  speak  of  spirits  and  ghosts  that  glide  by  night 

About  the  place  where  treasure  hath  been  hid  : 

And  now  methinks  that  I  am  one  of  those  : 

For  whilst  I  live,  here  lives  my  soul's  sole  hope, 

And,  when  I  die,  here  shall  my  spirit  walk.  30 

Abig.    Now  that  my  father's  fortune  were  so  good 
As  but  to  be  about  this  happy  place ; 
'Tis  not  so  happy  :  yet  when  we  parted  last, 
He  said  he  would  attend  me  in  the  morn. 
Then,  gentle  sleep,  where'er  his  body  rests,  35 

Give  charge  to  Morpheus  that  he  may  dream 
A  golden  dream,  and  of  the  sudden  wake, 
Come  and  receive  the  treasure  I  have  found. 

Bar.    Bueno  para  todos  mi  ganado  no  era  : 
As  good  go  on  as  sit  so  sadly  thus.  40 

But  stay,  what  star  shines  yonder  in  the  east? 
The  loadstar  of  my  life,  if  Abigail. 
Who's  there  ? 

Abig.   Who's  that  ? 

Bar.    Peace,  Abigail,  'tis  I.  45 

Abig.   Then,  father,  here  receive  thy  happiness. 

Bar.    Hast  thou't? 

Abig.    Here,  (^throws  down  the  bags)  hast  thou't? 
There's  more,  and  more,  and  more. 

Bar.    O  my  girl,  50 

My  gold,  my  fortune,  my  felicity  ! 
Strength  to  my  soul,  death  to  mine  enemy  ! 
Welcome  the  first  beginner  of  my  bUss  ! 
O  Abigail,  Abigail,  that  I  had  thee  here  too  ! 
Then  my  desires  were  fully  satisfied  :  55 

But  I  will  practise  thy  enlargement  thence  : 
O  girl  !  O  gold  !  O  beauty  !  O  my  bliss  !        \_Hugs  the  bags. 

Abig.    Father,  it  draweth  towards  midnight  now, 


I30  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

And  'bout  this  time  the  nuns  begin  to  wake ; 

To  shun  suspicion,  therefore,  let  us  part.  60 

Bar.   Farewell,  my  joy,  and  by  my  fingers  take 
A  kiss  from  him  that  sends  it  from  his  soul. 

{Exit  Abigail  abm>e. 
Now  Phoebus  ope  the  eyelids  of  the  day. 
And  for  the  raven  wake  the  morning  lark, 
That  I  may  hover  with  her  in  the  air ;  65 

Singing  o'er  these,  as  she  does  o'er  her  young, 
Hermoso  placer  de  los  dineros.  {Exit. 


THE   PASSIONATE   SHEPHERD   TO   HIS    LOVE 

Come  live  with  me,  and  be  my  love ; 
And  we  will  all  the  pleasures  prove 
That  hills  and  valleys,  dales  and  fields, 
Woods  or  steepy  mountain  yields. 

And  we  will  sit  upon  the  rocks,  5 

Seeing  the  shepherds  feed  their  flocks 
By  shallow  rivers,  to  whose  falls 
Melodious  birds  sing  madrigals. 

And  I  will  make  thee  beds  of  roses, 

And  a  thousand  fragrant  posies ;  10 

A  cap  of  flowers,  and  a  kirtle 

Embroider'd  all  with  leaves  of  myrtle. 

A  gown  made  of  the  finest  wool 
Which  from  our  pretty  lambs  we  pull ; 
Fair-lined  slippers  for  the  cold,  15 

With  buckles  of  the  purest  gold ; 


MARLOWE  13  J 

A  belt  of  straw  and  ivy  buds, 

With  coral  clasp  and  amber  studs  : 

An  if  these  pleasures  may  thee  move, 

Come  live  with  me,  and  be  my  love.  20 

The  shepherd-swains  shall  dance  and  sing 
For  thy  delight  each  May  morning  : 
If  these  delights  thy  mind  may  move, 
Then  live  with  me,  and  be  my  love. 


HERO   AND   LEANDER 

*  Who  taught  thee  rhetoric  to  deceive  a  maid  ? 

Ay  me  !  such  words  as  these  should  I  abhor. 

And  yet  I  like  them  for  the  orator.' 

With  that  Leander  stoop'd  to  have  embrac'd  her. 

But  from  his  spreading  arms  away  she  cast  her,  5 

And  thus  bespake  him  :    *  Gentle  youth,  forbear 

To  touch  the  sacred  garments  which  I  wear. 

Upon  a  rock,  and  underneath  a  hill, 

Far  from  the  town,  (where  all  is  whist  and  still, 

Save  that  the  sea,  playing  on  yellow  sand,  10 

Sends  forth  a  rattling  murmur  to  the  land, 

Whose  sound  allures  the  golden  Morpheus 

In  silence  of  the  night  to  visit  us,) 

My  turret  stands ;  and  there,  God  knows,  I  play 

With  Venus'  swans  and  sparrows  all  the  day.  15 

A  dwarfish  beldam  bears  me  company. 

That  hops  about  the  chamber  where  I  lie. 

And  spends  the  night,  that  might  be  better  spent. 

In  vain  discourse  and  apish  merriment :  — 

Come  thither.'  20 


WILLIAM   SHAKESPEARE 
(1564—1616) 

SONNETS 

XVIII 

Shall  I  compare  thee  to  a  summer's  day? 
Thou  art  more  lovely  and  more  temperate  : 
Rough  winds  do  shake  the  darling  buds  of  May, 
And  summer's  lease  hath  all  too  short  a  date : 
Sometime  too  hot  the  eye  of  heaven  shines, 
And  often  is  his  gold  complexion  dimm'd ; 
And  every  fair  from  fair  sometime  declines, 
By  chance  or  nature's  changing  course  untrimm'd ; 
But  thy  eternal  summer  shall  not  fade. 
Nor  lose  possession  of  that  fair  thou  owest ; 
Nor  shall  Death  brag  thou  wander'st  in  his  shade. 
When  in  eternal  lines  to  time  thou  grow'st : 

So  long  as  men  can  breathe,  or  eyes  can  see, 
So  long  lives  this,  and  this  gives  life  to  thee. 

1.^2 


SHAKESPEARE  1 3  3 

XXIX 

When,  in  disgrace  with  fortune  and  men's  eyes, 
I  all  alone  beweep  my  outcast  state, 
And  trouble  deaf  heaven  with  my  bootless  cries. 
And  look  upon  myself,  and  curse  my  fate, 
Wishing  me  like  to  one  more  rich  in  hope.  5 

Featured  like  him,  like  him  with  friends  possess'd, 
Desiring  this  man's  art  and  that  man's  scope, 
With  what  I  most  enjoy  contented  least ; 
Yet  in  these  thoughts  myself  almost  despising, 
Haply  I  think  on  thee,  and  then  my  state,  zo 

Like  to  the  lark  at  break  of  day  arising 
From  sullen  earth,  sings  hymns  at  heaven's  gate ; 
For  thy  sweet  love  rememb'd  such  wealth  brings 
That  then  I  scorn  to  change  my  state  with  kings. 


XXX 

When  to  the  sessions  of  sweet  silent  thought 

I  summon  up  remembrance  of  things  past, 

I  sigh  the  lack  of  many  a  thing  I  sought. 

And  with  old  woes  new  wail  my  dear  time's  waste  ; 

Then  can  I  drown  an  eye,  unused  to  flow, 

For  precious  friends  hid  in  death's  dateless  night. 

And  weep  afresh  love's  long  since  cancell'd  woe, 

And  moan  the  expense  of  many  a  vanish'd  sight : 

Then  can  I  grieve  at  grievances  foregone. 

And  heavily  from  woe  to  woe  tell  o'er 

The  sad  account  of  fore-bemoaned  moan. 

Which  I  new  pay  as  if  not  paid  before. 

But  if  the  while  I  think  on  thee,  dear  friend, 
All  losses  are  restored  and  sorrows  end. 


134  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

xxxin 

Full  many  a  glorious  morning  have  I  seen 

Flatter  the  mountain-tops  with  sovereign  eye, 

Kissing  with  golden  face  the  meadows  green, 

Gilding  pale  streams  with  heavenly  alchemy ; 

Anon  permit  the  basest  clouds  to  ride  S 

With  ugly  rack  on  his  celestial  face, 

And  from  the  forlorn  world  his  visage  hide. 

Stealing  unseen  to  west  with  this  disgrace  : 

Even  so  my  sun  one  early  morn  did  shine 

With  all-triumphant  splendour  on  my  brow ;  lo 

But,  out,  alack  !  he  was  but  one  hour  mine. 

The  region  cloud  hath  mask'd  him  from  me  now. 

Yet  him  for  this  my  love  no  whit  disdaineth ; 

Suns  of  the  world  may  stain  when  heaven's  sun  staineth. 


xxxvm 

How  can  my  Muse  want  subject  to  invent, 

While  thou  dost  breathe,  that  pour'st  into  my  verse 

Thine  own  sweet  argument,  too  excellent 

For  every  vulgar  paper  to  rehearse  ? 

O,  give  thyself  the  thanks,  if  aught  in  me 

Worthy  perusal  stand  against  thy  sight ; 

For  who's  so  dumb  that  cannot  write  to  thee. 

When  thou  thyself  dost  give  invention  light  ? 

Be  thou  the  tenth  Muse,  ten  times  more  in  worth 

Than  those  old  nine  which  rhymers  invocate ; 

And  he  that  calls  on  thee,  let  him  bring  forth 

Eternal  numbers  to  outlive  long  date. 

If  my  slight  Muse  do  please  these  curious  days. 
The  pain  be  mine,  but  thine  shall  be  the  praise. 


SHAKESPEARE  1 35 

LX 

Like  as  the  waves  made  toward  the  pebbled  shore, 
So  do  our  minutes  hasten  to  their  end ; 
Each  changing  place  with  that  which  goes  before, 
In  sequent  toil  all  forwards  do  contend. 
Nativity,  once  in  the  main  of  light,  5 

Crawls  to  maturity,  wherewith  being  crown'd, 
Crooked  eclipses  'gainst  his  glory  fight, 
And  Time  that  gave  doth  now  his  gift  confound. 
Time  doth  transfix  the  flourish  set  on  youth 
And  delves  the  parallels  in  beauty's  brow,  10 

Feeds  on  the  rarities  of  nature's  truth, 
And  nothing  stands  but  for  his  scythe  to  mow : 
And  yet  to  times  in  hope  my  verse  shall  stand. 
Praising  thy  worth,  despite  his  cruel  hand. 


LXVI 

Tired  with  all  these,  for  restful  death  I  cry. 
As,  to  behold  desert  a  beggar  born, 
And  needy  nothing  trimm'd  in  jollity, 
And  purest  faith  unhappily  forsworn, 
And  gilded  honour  shamefully  misplaced. 
And  maiden  virtue  rudely  strumpeted. 
And  right  perfection  wrongfully  disgraced. 
And  strength  by  limping  sway  disabled, 
And  art  made  tongue-tied  by  authority, 
And  folly,  doctor-like,  controlHng  skill, 
And  simple  truth  miscall'd  simphcity. 
And  captive  good  attending  captain  ill : 

Tired  with  all  these,  from  these  would  I  be  gone, 
Save  that,  to  die,  I  leave  my  love  alone. 


I.t^6  FROM  CHAUCER    7  0  ARNOLD 

LXXXVII 

Farewell !  thou  art  too  dear  for  my  possessing, 
And  like  enough  thou  know'st  thy  estimate  : 
The  charter  of  thy  worth  gives  thee  releasing ; 
My  bonds  in  thee  are  all  determinate. 
For  how  do  I  hold  thee  but  by  thy  granting?  i 

And  for  that  riches  where  is  my  deserving  ? 
The  cause  of  this  fair  gift  in  me  is  wanting, 
And  so  my  patent  back  again  is  swerving. 
Thyself  thou  gavest,  thy  own  worth  then  not  knowing, 
Or  me,  to  whom  thou  gavest  it,  else  mistaking ;  k 

So  thy  great  gift,  upon  misprision  growing, 
Comes  home  again,  on  better  judgement  making. 
Thus  have  I  had  thee,  as  a  dream  doth  flatter. 
In  sleep  a  king,  but  waking  no  such  matter. 


xcin 

So  shall  I  live,  supposing  thou  art  true. 
Like  a  deceived  husband ;  so  love's  face 
May  still  seem  love  to  me,  though  alter'd  new ; 
Thy  looks  with  me,  thy  heart  in  other  place  : 
For  there  can  live  no  hatred  in  thine  eye. 
Therefore  in  that  I  cannot  know  thy  change. 
In  many's  look  the  false  heart's  history 
Is  writ  in  moods  and  frowns  and  wrinkles  strange, 
But  heaven  in  thy  creation  did  decree 
That  in  thy  face  sweet  love  should  ever  dwell ; 
Whate'er  thy  thoughts  or  thy  heart's  workings  be. 
Thy  looks  should  nothing  thence  but  sweetness  tell. 
How  like  Eve's  apple  doth  thy  beauty  grow, 
If  thy  sweet  virtue  answer  not  thy  show. 


SHAKESPEARE  1 37 

XCIV 

They  that  have  power  to  hurt  and  will  do  none, 

That  do  not  do  the  thing  they  most  do  show, 

Who,  moving  others,  are  themselves  as  stone, 

Unmoved,  cold,  and  to  temptation  slow ; 

They  rightly  do  inherit  heaven's  graces  r 

And  husband  nature's  riches  from  expense ; 

They  are  the  lords  and  owners  of  their  faces, 

Others  but  stewards  of  their  excellence. 

The  summer's  flower  is  to  the  summer  sweet, 

Though  to  itself  it  only  live  and  die,  10 

But  if  that  flower  with  base  infection  meet. 

The  basest  weed  outbraves  his  dignity  : 

For  sweetest  things  turn  sourest  by  their  deeds ; 

Lilies  that  fester  smell  far  worse  than  weeds. 


cm 

Alack,  what  poverty  my  Muse  brings  forth, 
That  having  such  a  scope  to  show  her  pride, 
The  argument,  all  bare,  is  of  more  worth 
Than  when  it  hath  my  added  praise  beside  ! 
O,  blame  me  not,  if  I  no  more  can  write  ! 
Look  in  your  glass,  and  there  appears  a  face 
That  over-goes  my  blunt  invention  quite, 
Dulling  my  lines  and  doing  me  disgrace. 
Were  it  not  sinful  then,  striving  to  mend. 
To  mar  the  subject  that  before  was  well? 
For  to  no  other  pass  my  verses  tend 
Than  of  your  graces  and  your  gifts  to  tell ; 

And  more,  much  more,  than  in  my  verse  can  sit, 
Your  own  glass  shows  you  when  you  look  in  it. 


138  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

CIV 

To  me,  fair  friend,  you  never  can  be  old. 

For  as  you  were  when  first  your  eye  I  eyed, 

Such  seems  your  beauty  still.     Three  winters  cold 

Have  from  the  forest  shook  three  summers'  pride, 

Three  beauteous  springs  to  yellow  autumn  turn'd 

In  process  of  the  seasons  have  I  seen, 

Three  April  perfumes  in  three  hot  Junes  bum'd. 

Since  first  I  saw  you  fresh,  which  yet  are  green. 

Ah,  yet  doth  beauty,  like  a  dial-hand. 

Steal  from  his  figure,  and  no  pace  perceived ; 

So  your  sweet  hue,  which  methinks  still  doth  stand, 

Hath  motion,  and  mine  eye  may  be  deceived : 

For  fear  of  which,  hear  this,  thou  age  unbred  ; 

Ere  you  were  born  was  beauty's  summer  dead. 


cvi 

When  in  the  chronicle  of  wasted  time 
I  see  descriptions  of  the  fairest  wights. 
And  beauty  making  beautiful  old  rhyme 
In  praise  of  ladies  dead  and  lovely  knights, 
Then,  in  the  blazon  of  sweet  beauty's  best. 
Of  hand,  of  foot,  of  Hp,  of  eye,  of  brow, 
I  see  their  antique  pen  would  have  express'd 
Even  such  a  beauty  as  you  master  now. 
So  all  their  praises  are  but  prophecies 
Of  this  our  time,  all  you  prefiguring ; 
And,  for  they  look'd  but  with  divining  eyes, 
They  had  not  skill  enough  your  worth  to  sing : 
For  we,  which  now  behold  these  present  days. 
Have  eyes  to  wonder,  but  lack  tongues  to  praise. 


SHAKESPEARE  139 

cvn 

Not  mine  own  fears,  nor  the  prophetic  soul 
Of  the  wide  world  dreaming  on  things  to  come, 
Can  yet  the  lease  of  my  true  love  control, 
Supposed  as  forfeit  to  a  confined  doom. 
The  mortal  moon  hath  her  ecHpse  endured,  5 

And  the  sad  augurs  mock  their  own  presage ; 
Incertainties  now  crown  themselves  assured, 
And  peace  proclaims  olives  of  endless  age. 
Now  with  the  drops  of  this  most  balmy  time 
My  love  looks  fresh,  and  Death  to  me  subscribes,        10 
Since,  spite  of  him,  I'll  live  in  this  poor  rhyme, 
While  he  insults  o'er  dull  and  speechless  tribes ; 
And  thou  in  this  shalt  find  thy  monument. 
When  tyrants'  crests  and  tombs  of  brass  are  spent. 


cxvi 

Let  me  not  to  the  marriage  of  true  minds 

Admit  impediments.     Love  is  not  love 

Which  alters  when  it  alteration  finds, 

Or  bends  with  the  remover  to  remove : 

O,  no  !  it  is  an  ever-fixed  mark. 

That  looks  on  tempests  and  is  never  shaken ; 

It  is  the  star  to  every  wandering  bark, 

Whose  worth's  unknown,  although  his  height  be  taken. 

Love's  not  Time's  fool,  though  rosy  lips  and  cheeks 

Within  his  bending  sickle's  compass  come ; 

Love  alters  not  with  his  brief  hours  and  weeks, 

But  bears  it  out  even  to  the  edge  of  doom. 

If  this  be  error  and  upon  me  proved, 

I  never  writ,  nor  no  man  ever  loved. 


I40  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

CXLVI 

Poor  soul,  the  centre  of  my  sinful  earth, 
(Fool'd  by)  these  rebel  powers  that  thee  array, 
Why  dost  thou  pine  within  and  suffer  dearth, 
Painting  thy  outward  walls  so  costly  gay? 
Why  so  large  cost,  having  so  short  a  lease, 
Dost  thou  upon  thy  fading  mansion  spend  ? 
Shall  worms,  inheritors  of  this  excess, 
Eat  up  thy  charge  ?  is  this  thy  body's  end  ? 
Then,  soul,  live  thou  upon  thy  servant's  loss. 
And  let  that  pine  to  aggravate  thy  store  ; 
Buy  terms  divine  in  selling  hours  of  dross ; 
Within  be  fed,  without  be  rich  no  more  : 

So  shalt  thou  feed  on  Death,  that  feeds  on  men. 
And  Death  once  dead,  there's  no  more  dying  then. 


cxLvm 

O  me,  what  eyes  hath  Love  put  in  my  head. 
Which  have  no  correspondence  with  true  sight  ? 
Or,  if  they  have,  where  is  my  judgement  fled, 
That  censures  falsely  what  they  see  aright? 
If  that  be  fair  whereon  my  false  eyes  dote, 
What  means  the  world  to  say  it  is  not  so  ? 
If  it  be  not,  then  love  doth  well  denote 
Love's  eye  is  not  so  true  as  all  men's  :  no. 
How  can  it?    O,  how  can  Love's  eye  be  true. 
That  is  so  vex'd  with  watching  and  with  tears  ? 
No  marvel  then,  though  I  mistake  my  view ; 
The  sun  itself  sees  not  till  heaven  clears. 

O  cunning  Love  !  with  tears  thou  keep'st  me  blind. 
Lest  eyes  well-seeing  thy  foul  faults  should  find. 


SHAKESPEARE  141 

Under  the  greenwood  tree, 

Who  loves  to  lie  with  me, 

And  tune  his  merry  note 

Unto  the  sweet  bird's  throat, 
Come  hither,  come  hither,  come  hither : 

Here  shall  he  see  no  enemy 
But  Winter  and  rough  weather. 


Where  the  bee  sucks,  there  suck  I : 

In  a  cowslip's  bell  I  lie  ; 

There  I  couch,  when  owls  do  cry : 

On  the  bat's  back  I  do  fly 

After  summer  merrily. 

Merrily,  merrily  shall  I  live  now. 

Under  the  blossom  that  hangs  on  the  bough  ! 


Come  unto  these  yellow  sands, 

And  then  take  hands  : 
Courtsied  when  you  have,  and  kiss'd 

The  wild  waves  whist, 
Foot  it  featly,  here  and  there ; 
And,  sweet  Sprites,  the  burthen  bear. 
Hark,  hark  ! 
Bow-wow. 
The  watch-dogs  bark : 

Bow-wow. 
Hark,  hark  !  I  hear 
The  strain  of  strutting  chanticleer 
Cry,  Cock-a-diddle-dow. 


142  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

Blow,  blow,  thou  winter  wind  ! 
Thou  art  not  so  unkind 

As  man's  ingratitude ; 
Thy  tooth  is  not  so  keen. 
Because  thou  art  foreseen, 

Although  thy  breath  be  rude. 
Heigh-ho  !  sing  heigh-ho  !  unto  the  green  holly ; 
Most  friendship  is  feigning,  most  loving  mere  folly : 

Then  heigh-ho,  the  holly  ! 

This  life  is  mere  folly. 

Freeze,  freeze,  thou  bitter  sky  ! 
That  dost  not  bite  so  nigh 

As  benefits  forgot : 
Though  thou  the  waters  warp, 
Thy  sting  is  not  so  sharp 

As  friend  remember'd  not. 
Heigh-ho  !  sing  heigh-ho  !  etc. 


Hark,  hark  !  the  lark  at  Heaven's  gate  sings, 

And  Phoebus  'gins  arise, 
His  steeds  to  water  at  those  springs 

On  chaliced  flowers  that  lies ; 
And  winding  Mary-buds  begin 

To  ope  their  golden  eyes  : 
With  everything  that  pretty  is. 

My  lady  sweet,  arise ; 
Arise,  arise ! 


SELECTIONS    FROM    THE    BIBLE 

(1611) 

EXODUS   IS 

Moses'  Song  of  Deliverance 

Then  sang  Moses  and  the  children  of  Israel  this  song 
unto  the  Lord,  and  spake,  saying,  I  will  sing  unto  the 
Lord,  for  he  hath  triumphed  gloriously ;  the  horse  and 
his  rider  hath  he  thrown  into  the  sea.  The  Lord  is  my 
strength  and  song,  and  he  is  become  my  salvation ;  he  5 
is  my  God,  and  I  will  prepare  him  an  habitation ;  my 
father's  God,  and  I  will  exalt  him.  The  Lord  is  a  man 
of  war;  the  Lord  is  his  name.  Pharaoh's  chariots  and 
his  host  hath  he  cast  into  the  sea ;  his  chosen  captains 
also  are  drowned  in  the  Red  sea.  The  depths  have  cov-  10 
ered  them  ;  they  sank  into  the  bottom  as  a  stone.  Thy 
right  hand,  O  Lord,  is  become  glorious  in  power ;  thy 
right  hand,  O  Lord,  hath  dashed  in  pieces  the  enemy. 
And  in  the  greatness  of  thine  excellency  thou  hast  over- 
thrown them  that  rose  up  against  thee  ;  thou  sentest  forth  15 
thy  wrath,  which  consumed  them  as  stubble.  And  with 
the  blast  of  thy  nostrils  the  waters  were  gathered  together, 
the  floods  stood  upright  as  an  heap,  and  the  depths  were 
congealed  in  the  heart  of  the  sea.  The  enemy  said,  I 
will  pursue,  I  will  overtake,  I  will  divide  the  spoil ;  my  20 
lust  shall  be  satisfied  upon  them  ;  I  will  draw  my  sword, 
my  hand  shall  destroy  them.    Thou  didst  blow  with  thy 

143 


144  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

wind,  the  sea  covered  them ;  they  sank  as  lead  in  the 
mighty  waters. 

Who  is  like  unto  thee,  O  Lord,  among  the   gods?  25 
who  is  like  thee,  glorious  in  hoHness,  fearful  in  praises, 
doing  wonders?    Thou  stretchedst  out  thy  right  hand, 
the  earth  swallowed   them.      Thou   in   thy  mercy  hast 
led  forth  the  people  which  thou  hast  redeemed;  thou 
hast  guided  them  in  thy  strength  unto  thy  holy  habi-  30 
tation.     The  people  shall  hear,  and  be  afraid ;   sorrow 
shall  take  hold  on  the  inhabitants  of  Palestina.     Then 
the  dukes  of  Edom  shall  be  amazed ;  the  mighty  men 
of  Moab,  trembHng  shall  take  hold  upon  them ;  all  the 
inhabitants  of  Canaan  shall  melt  away.     Fear  and  dread  35 
shall  fall  upon  them ;  by  the  greatness  of  thine  arm  they 
shall  be  as  still  as  a  stone ;   till  thy  people  pass  over, 
O  Lord,  till  the  people  pass  over  which  thou  hast  pur- 
chased.    Thou  shalt  bring  them  in,  and  plant  them  in 
the  mountain  of  thine  inheritance,  in  the  place,  O  Lord,  40 
which  thou  hast  made  for  thee  to  dwell  in,  in  the  sanc- 
tuary, O  Lord,  which  thy  hands  have  established.     The 
Lord  shall  reign  for  ever  and  ever.     For  the  horse  of 
Pharaoh  went  in  with  his  chariots  and  with  his  horsemen 
into  the  sea,  and  the  Lord  brought  again  the  waters  of  45 
the  sea  upon  them ;  but  the  children  of  Israel  went  on 
dry  land  in  the  midst  of  the   sea.     And   Miriam   the 
prophetess,  the  sister  of  Aaron,  took  a  timbrel  in  her 
hand ;  and  all  the  women  went  out  after  her  with  tim- 
brels and  with   dances.     And   Miriam  answered    them,  50 
Sing  ye  to  the  Lord,  for  he  hath  triumphed  gloriously ; 
the  horse  and  his  rider  hath  he  thrown  into  the  sea. 

So  Moses  brought  Israel  from  the  Red  sea,  and  they 
went  out  in  the  wilderness  of  Shur ;  and  they  went  three 
days  in  the  wilderness,  and  found  no  water.     And  when  55 


SELECTIONS  FROM   THE   BIBLE  I45 

they  came  to  Marah,  they  could  not  drink  of  the  waters 
of  Marah,  for  they  were  bitter ;  therefore  the  name  of  it 
was  called  Marah.  And  the  people  murmured  against 
Moses,  saying,  What  shall  we  drink?  And  he  cried  unto 
the  Lord  ;  and  the  Lord  showed  him  a  tree,  -which  when  60 
he  had  cast  into  the  waters,  the  waters  were  made  sweet. 
There  he  made  for  them  a  statute  and  an  ordinance,  and 
there  he  proved  them,  and  said.  If  thou  wilt  diligently 
hearken  to  the  voice  of  the  Lord  thy  God,  and  wilt  do 
that  which  is  right  in  his  sight,  and  wilt  give  ear  to  his  65 
commandments,  and  keep  all  his  statutes,  I  will  put  none 
of  these  diseases  upon  thee,  which  I  have  brought  upon 
the  Egyptians ;  for  I  am  the  Lord  that  healeth  thee. 
And  they  came  to  Elim,  where  were  twelve  wells  of 
water,  and  threescore  and  ten  palm  trees ;  and  they  70 
encamped  there  by  the  waters. 


2    SAMUEL  I  :  17-27 

DavicTs  Lament  over  Saul  and  Jonathan 

^  And  David  lamented  with  this  lamentation  over  Saul 
and  over  Jonathan  his  son :  (also  he  bade  them  teach 
the  children  of  Judah  the  use  of  the  bow ;  behold,  it  is 
written  in  the  book  of  Jasher.)  The  beauty  of  Israel  is 
slain  upon  thy  high  places ;  how  are  the  mighty  fallen  !  5 
Tell  it  not  in  Gath,  publish  it  not  in  the  streets  of  Aske- 
lon  ;  lest  the  daughters  of  the  Philistines  rejoice,  lest  the 
daughters  of  the  uncircumcised  triumph.  Ye  mountains 
of  Gilboa,  let  there  be  no  dew,  neither  let  there  be  rain, 
upon  you,  nor  fields  of  offerings ;  for  there  the  shield  of  10 
the  mighty  is  vilely  cast  away,  the  shield  of  Saul,  as  though 


146  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

he  had  not  been  anointed  with  oil.     From  the  blood  of 
the  slain,  from  the  fat  of  the  mighty,  the  bow  of  Jonathan 
turned  not  back,  and  the  sword  of  Saul  returned  not 
empty.     Saul  and  Jonathan  were  lovely  and  pleasant  in  15 
their  lives,  and  in  their  death  they  were  not  divided; 
they  were  swifter  than  eagles,  they  were  stronger  than 
lions.     Ye   daughters   of   Israel,   weep   over   Saul,   who 
clothed  you  in  scarlet,  with  other  delights,  who  put  on 
ornaments  of  gold  upon   your  apparel.     How  are  the  20 
mighty  fallen  in  the  midst  of  the  battle  !     O  Jonathan, 
thou  wast  slain  in  thine  high  places.     I  am  distressed  for 
thee,  my  brother  Jonathan  ;  very  pleasant  hast  thou  been 
unto  me ;  thy  love  to  me  was  wonderful,  passing  the  love 
of  women.     How  are  the  mighty  fallen,  and  the  weapons  25 
of  war  perished  ! 


PSALM   103 

Bless  the  Lord,  O  my  soul ;  and  all  that  is  within 
me,  bless  his  holy  name.  Bless  the  Lord,  O  my  soul,  and 
forget  not  all  his  benefits.  Who  forgiveth  all  thine  in- 
iquities ;  who  healeth  all  thy  diseases.  Who  redeemeth 
thy  life  from  destruction ;  who  crowneth  thee  with  loving-  5 
kindness  and  tender  mercies.  Who  satisfieth  thy  mouth 
with  good  things ;  so  that  thy  youth  is  renewed  like  the 
eagle's.  The  Lord  executeth  righteousness  and  judgment 
for  all  that  are  oppressed.  He  made  known  his  ways 
unto  Moses,  his  acts  unto  the  children  of  Israel.  The  10 
Lord  is  merciful  and  gracious,  slow  to  anger,  and  plen- 
teous in  mercy.  He  will  not  always  chide ;  neither  will 
he  keep  his  anger  for  ever.  He  hath  not  dealt  with  us 
after  our  sins ;  nor  rewarded  us  according  to  our  iniquities. 
For  as  the  heaven  is  high  above  the  earth,  so  great  is  his  15 


SELECTIONS  FROM    THE  BIBLE  147 

mercy  toward  them  that  fear  him.  As  far  as  the  east  is 
from  the  west,"  so  far  hath  he  removed  our  transgressions 
from  us.  Like  as  a  father  pitieth  his  children,  so  the 
Lord  pitieth  them  that  fear  him.  For  he  knoweth  our 
frame ;  he  remembereth  that  we  are  dust.  As  for  man,  20 
his  days  are  as  grass ;  as  a  flower  of  the  field,  so  he  flour- 
isheth.  For  the  wind  passeth  over  it,  and  it  is  gone  ;  and 
the  place  thereof  shall  know  it  no  more.  But  the  mercy 
of  the  Lord  is  from  everlasting  to  everlasting  upon  them 
that  fear  him,  and  his  righteousness  unto  children's  chil-  25 
dren.  To  such  as  keep  his  covenant,  and  to  those  that 
remember  his  commandments  to  do  them.  The  Lord 
hath  prepared  his  throne  in  the  heavens ;  and  his  king- 
dom ruleth  over  all.  Bless  the  Lord,  ye  his  angels,  that 
excel  in  strength,  that  do  his  commandments,  hearkening  30 
unto  the  voice  of  his  word.  Bless  ye  the  Lord,  all  ye  his 
hosts ;  ye  ministers  of  his,  that  do  his  pleasure.  Bless 
the  Lord,  all  his  works  in  all  places  of  his  dominion; 
bless  the  Lord,  O  my  soul. 


PROVERBS  8 

TJie  Invitation  of  Wisdom 

Doth  not  wisdom  cry?  and  understanding  put  forth 
her  voice?  She  standeth  in  the  top  of  high  places,  by 
the  way  in  the  places  of  the  paths.  She  crieth  at  the 
gates,  at  the  entry  of  the  city,  at  the  coming  in  at 
the  doors :  Unto  you,  O  men,  I  call,  and  my  voice  is  to 
the  sons  of  man.  O,  ye  simple,  understand  wisdom  ;  and, 
ye  fools,  be  ye  of  an  understanding  heart.  Hear ;  for  I 
will  speak  of  excellent  things  ;  and  the  opening  of  my 


148  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

lips  shall  be  right  things.  For  my  mouth  shall  speak 
truth;  and  wickedness  is  an  abomination  to  my  lips.  10 
All  the  words  of  my  mouth  are  in  righteousness ;  there 
is  nothing  froward  or  perverse  in  them.  They  are  all 
plain  to  him  that  understandeth,  and  right  to  them 
that  find  knowledge.  Receive  my  instruction,  and  not 
silver;  and  knowledge  rather  than  choice  gold.  For  15 
wisdom  is  better  than  rubies ;  and  all  the  things  that  may 
be  desired  are  not  to  be  compared  to  it. 

I  wisdom  dwell  with  prudence,  and  find  out  knowledge 
of  witty  inventions.    The  fear  of  the  Lord  is  to  hate  evil ; 
pride,  and  arrogancy,  and  the  evil  way,  and  the  froward  20 
mouth,  do  I  hate.     Counsel  is  mine,  and  sound  wisdom  ; 
I   am   understanding ;    I  have  strength.     By  me  kings 
reign,  and  princes  decree  justice.     By  me  princes  rule, 
and  nobles,  even  all  the  judges  of  the  earth.    I  love  them 
that  love  me ;  and  those  that  seek  me  early  shall  find  me.  25 
Riches  and  honor  are  with  me ;  yea,  durable  riches  and 
righteousness.     My  fruit  is  better  than  gold,  yea,  than 
fine  gold  ;  and  my  revenue  than  choice  silver.     I  lead  in 
the  way  of  righteousness,  in  the  midst  of  the  paths  of 
judgment ;  That  I  may  cause  those  that  love  me  to  inherit  30 
substance;   and  I  will  fill  their  treasures.     The  Lord 
possessed  me  in  the  beginning  of  his  way,  before  his 
works  of  old.     I  was  set  up  from  everlasting,  from  the 
beginning,  or  ever  the  earth  was.     When  there  were  no 
depths,  I  was  brought  forth ;  when  there  were  no  foun-  35 
tains  abounding  with  water.     Before  the  mountains  were 
settled,  before  the  hills  was  I  brought  forth ;  While  as  yet 
he  had  not  made  the  earth,  nor  the  fields,  nor  the  highest 
part  of  the  dust  of  the  world.     When  he  prepared  the 
heavens,  I  was  there  ;  when  he  set  a  compass  upon  the  40 
face   of  the   depth ;    When   he   established   the   clouds 


SELECTIONS  FROM   THE  BIBLE  1 49 

above  ;  when  he  strengthened  the  fountains  of  the  deep. 
When  he  gave  to  the  sea  his  decree,  that  the  waters  should 
not  pass  his  commandment ;  when  he  appointed  the 
foundations  of  the  earth.  Then  I  was  by  him,  as  one  45 
brought  up  with  him ;  and  I  was  daily  his  delight,  rejoic- 
ing always  before  him.  Rejoicing  in  the  habitable  part 
of  his  earth ;  and  my  delights  were  with  the  sons  of 
men. 

Now  therefore  hearken  unto  me,  O  ye  children;  for  50 
blessed  are  they  that  keep  my  ways.  Hear  instruction, 
and  be  wise,  and  refuse  it  not.  Blessed  is  the  man  that 
heareth  me,  watching  daily  at  my  gates,  waiting  at  the 
posts  of  my  doors.  For  whoso  findeth  me  findeth  life, 
and  shall  obtain  favor  of  the  Lord.  But  he  that  sinneth  55 
against  me  wrongeth  his  own  soul ;  all  they  that  hate  me 
love  death. 


ISAIAH  58 

True  and  False  Religion 

Cry  aloud,  spare  not,  lift  up  thy  voice  like  a  trumpet, 
rand  show  my  people  their  transgression,  and  the  house  of 
Jacob  their  sins.  Yet  they  seek  me  daily,  and  delight  to 
know  my  ways,  as  a  nation  that  did  righteousness,  and 
forsook  not  the  ordinance  of  their  God  ;  they  ask  of  me  5 
the  ordinances  of  justice ;  they  take  delight  in  approach- 
ing to  God.  Wherefore  have  we  fasted,  say  they,  and 
thou  seest  not?  wherefore  have  we  afflicted  our  soul,  and 
thou  takest  no  knowledge?  Behold,  in  the  day  of  your 
fast  ye  find  pleasure,  and  exact  all  your  labors.  Behold,  10 
ye  fast  for  strife  and  debate,  and  to  smite  with  the  fist  of 
wickedness ;  ye  shall  not  fast  as  ye  do  this  day,  to  make 


I50  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

your  voice  to  be  heard  on  high.     Is  it  such  a  fast  that  I 
have  chosen?  a  day  for  a  man  to  afflict  his  soul?  is  it  to 
bow  down  his  head  as  a  bulrush,  and  to  spread  sackcloth  15 
and  ashes  under  him?  wilt  thou  call  this  a  fast,  and  an 
acceptable  day  to  the  Lord?     Is  not  this  the  fast  that  I 
have  chosen?  to  loose  the  bands  of  wickedness,  to  undo 
the  heavy  burdens,  and  to  let  the  oppressed  go  free,  and 
that  ye  break  every  yoke?     Is  it  not  to  deal  thy  bread  to  20 
the  hungry,  and  that  thou  bring  the  poor  that  are  cast  out 
to  thy  house  ?  when  thou  seest  the  naked,  that  thou  cover 
him  ?  and  that  thou  hide  not  thyself  from  thine  own  flesh  ?   • 
Then  shall  thy  light  break  forth  as  the  morning,  and  thine 
health  shall  spring  forth  speedily,  and  thy  righteousness  25 
shall  go  before  thee ;  the  glory  of  the  Lord  shall  be  thy 
rearward.     Then   shalt   thou  call,   and   the   Lord   shall 
answer ;  thou  shalt  cry,  and  he  shall  say.  Here  I  am.     If 
thou  take  away  from  the  midst  of  thee  the  yoke,  the 
putting  forth  of  the  finger,  and  speaking  vanity ;  And  if  30 
thou  draw  out  thy  soul  to  the  hungry,  and  satisfy  the 
afflicted  soul ;  then  shall  thy  light  rise  in  obscurity,  and 
thy  darkness  be  as  the  noon  day;  And  the  Lord  shall 
guide  thee  continually,  and  satisfy  thy  soul  in  drought, 
and  make  fat  thy  bones  ;  and  thou  shalt  be  like  a  watered   35 
garden,  and  like  a  spring  of  water,  whose  waters  fail  not. 
And  they  that  shall  be  of  thee  shall  build  the  old  waste 
places;    thou   shalt   raise   up   the  foundations  of  many 
generations ;  and  thou  shalt  be  called.  The  repairer  of 
the  breach,  The  restorer  of  paths  to  dwell  in.     If  thou  40 
turn  away  thy  foot  from  the  sabbath,  from  doing  thy 
pleasure  on  my  holy  day  ;  and  call  the  sabbath  a  delight, 
the  holy  of  the  Lord,  honorable  ;  and  shalt  honor  him, 
not  doing  thine  own  ways,  nor  finding  thine  own  pleasure, 
nor  speaking  thine  own  words;  Then  shalt  thou  delight  45 


SELECTIONS  FROM   THE  BIBLE  151 

thyself  in  the  Lord,  and  I  will  cause  thee  to  ride  upon 
the  high  places  of  the  earth,  and  feed  thee  with  the 
heritage  of  Jacob  thy  father ;  for  the  mouth  of  the  Lord 
hath  spoken  it. 


MATTHEW  7 

The  Ser?non  on  the  Mount 

Judge  not,  that  ye  be  not  judged.  For  with  what  judg- 
ment ye  judge,  ye  shall  be  judged ;  and  with  what 
measure  ye  mete,  it  shall  be  measured  to  you  again. 
And  why  beholdest  thou  the  mote  that  is  in  thy  brother's 
eye,  but  considerest  not  the  beam  that  is  in  thine  own  5 
eye  ?  Or  how  wilt  thou  say  to  thy  brother.  Let  me  pull 
out  the  mote  out  of  thine  eye ;  and  behold,  a  beam  is  in 
thine  own  eye  ?  Thou  hypocrite,  first  cast  out  the  beam 
out  of  thine  own  eye,  and  then  shalt  thou  see  clearly  to 
cast  out  the  mote  out  of  thy  brother's  eye.  Give  not  that  10 
which  is  holy  unto  the  dogs,  neither  cast  ye  your  pearls 
before  swine,  lest  they  trample  them  under  their  feet,  and 
turn  again  and  rend  you.  Ask,  and  it  shall  be  given  you  ; 
seek,  and  ye  shall  find ;  knock,  and  it  shall  be  opened 
unto  you ;  For  every  one  that  asketh  receiveth ;  and  he  15 
that  seeketh  findeth  ;  and  to  him  that  knocketh  it  shall  be 
opened.  Or  what  man  is  there  of  you,  whom  if  his  son 
ask  bread,  will  he  give  him  a  stone?  Or  if  he  ask  a  fish, 
will  he  give  him  a  serpent  ?  If  ye  then,  being  evil,  know 
how  to  give  good  gifts  unto  your  children,  how  much  20 
more  shall  your  Father  which  is  in  heaven  give  good 
things  to  them  that  ask  him  ?  Therefore  all  things  what- 
soever ye  would  that  men  should  do  to  you,  do  ye  even 


152  FROM   CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

SO  to  them ;  for  this  is  the  law  and  the  prophets.     Enter 
ye  in  at  the  strait  gate ;  for  wide  is  the  gate,  and  broad  is  25 
the  way,  that  leadeth  to  destruction,  and  many  there  be 
which  go  in  thereat ;    Because   strait   is   the    gate,  and 
narrow  is  the  way,  which  leadeth  unto  life,  and  few  there 
be  that  find  it.     Beware  of  false  prophets,  which  come  to 
you  in  sheep's  clothing,  but  inwardly  they  are  ravening  30 
wolves.     Ye  shall  know  them  by  their  fruits.     Do  men 
gather  grapes  of  thorns,  or  figs  of  thistles?     Even  so 
every  good  tree  bringeth  forth  good  fruit ;  but  a  corrupt 
tree  bringeth  forth  evil  fruit.     A  good  tree  cannot  bring 
forth  evil  fruit,  neither  can  a  corrupt  tree  bring  forth  good  35 
fruit.     Every  tree  that  bringeth  not  forth  good  fruit  is 
hewn  down,  and  cast  into  the  fire.     Wherefore  by  their 
fruits  ye  shall  know  them.     Not  every  one  that  saith  unto 
me,  Lord,  Lord,  shall  enter  into  the  kingdom  of  heaven ; 
but  he  that  doeth  the  will  of  my  Father  which  is  in  40 
heaven.     Many  will  say  to  me  in  that  day.  Lord,  Lord, 
have  we  not  prophesied  in  thy  name,  and  in  thy  name 
have   cast    out   devils,   and    in    thy   name    done    many 
wonderful  works?     And  then  I  will  profess  unto  them,  I 
never  knew  you ;  depart  from  me,  ye  that  work  iniquity.  45 
Therefore  whosoever  heareth  these  sayings  of  mine,  and 
doeth  them,  I  will  liken  him  unto  a  wise  man,  which  built 
his  house  upon  a  rock ;  And  the  rain  descended,  and  the 
floods  came,  and  the  winds  blew,  and  beat   upon  that 
house  ;  and  it  fell  not ;  for  it  was  founded  upon  a  rock.   50 
And  every  one  that  heareth  these  sayings  of  mine,  and 
doeth  them  not,  shall  be  likened  unto  a  foolish  man, 
which    built    his   house  upon   the   sand ;   And    the  rain 
descended,  and  the  floods  came,  and  the  winds  blew,  and 
beat  upon  that  house ;  and  it  fell ;  and  great  was  the  fall  55 
of  it.     And  it  came  to  pass,  when  Jesus  had  ended  these 


SELECTIONS  FROM   THE  BIBLE  1 53 

sayings,  the  people  were  astonished  at  his  doctrine ;  For 
he  taught  them  as  one  having  authority,  and  not  as  the 
scribes. 


I    CORINTHIANS   13 

Love  Beyond  all  Things 

Though  I  speak  with  the  tongues  of  men  and  of  angels, 
and  have  not  charity,  I  am  become  as  sounding  brass,  or 
a  tinkling  cymbal.  And  though  I  have  the  gift  of  proph- 
ecy, and  understand  all  mysteries,  and  all  knowledge ; 
and  though  I  have  all  faith,  so  that  I  could  remove  moun-  5 
tains,  and  have  not  charity,  I  am  nothing.  And  though  I 
bestow  all  my  goods  to  feed  the  poor,  and  though  I  give 
my  body  to  be  burned,  and  have  not  charity,  it  profiteth 
me  nothing.  Charity  suffereth  long,  and  is  kind  ;  charity 
envieth  not ;  charity  vaunteth  not  itself,  is  not  puffed  up  ;  10 
doth  not  behave  itself  unseemly,  seeketh  not  her  own,  is 
not  easily  provoked,  thinketh  no  evil ;  Rejoiceth  not  in 
iniquity,  but  rejoiceth  in  the  truth ;  Beareth  all  things, 
believeth  all  things,  hopeth  all  things,  endureth  all  things. 
Charity  never  faileth ;  but  whether  there  be  prophecies,  15 
they  shall  fail ;  whether  there  be  tongues,  they  shall 
cease  ;  whether  there  be  knowledge,  it  shall  vanish  away. 
For  we  know  in  part,  and  we  prophesy  in  part.  But 
when  that  which  is  perfect  is  come,  then  that  which  is  in 
part  shall  be  done  away.  When  I  was  a  child,  I  spake  as  20 
a  child,  I  understood  as  a  child,  I  thought  as  a  child ; 
but  when  I  became  a  man,  I  put  away  childish  things. 
For  now  we  see  through  a  glass,  darkly,  but  then  face  to 
face ;  now  I  know  in  part,  but  then  shall  I  know  even  as 
also  I  am  known.  And  now  abideth  faith,  hope,  charity,  25 
these  three  ;  but  the  greatest  of  these  is  charity. 


154  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

REVELATION   6 

T%e  Seven  Seals 

And  I  saw  when  the  Lamb  opened  one  of  the  seals, 
and  I  heard,  as  it  were  the  noise  of  thunder,  one  of  the 
four  beasts  saying,  Come  and  see.  And  I  saw,  and 
behold  a  white  horse ;  and  he  that  sat  on  him  had  a 
bow;  and  a  crown  was  given  unto  him;  and  he  went  5 
forth  conquering,  and  to  conquer.  And  when  he  had 
opened  the  second  seal,  I  heard  the  second  beast  say, 
Come  and  see.  And  there  went  out  another  horse  that 
was  red ;  and  power  was  given  to  him  that  sat  thereon  to 
take  peace  from  the  earth,  and  that  they  should  kill  one  10 
another;  and  there  was  given  unto  him  a  great  sword. 
And  when  he  had  opened  the  third  seal,  I  heard  the 
third  beast  say.  Come  and  see.  And  I  beheld,  and  lo  a 
black  horse ;  and  he  that  sat  on  him  had  a  pair  of  bal- 
ances in  his  hand.  And  I  heard  a  voice  in  the  midst  of  15 
the  four  beasts  say,  A  measure  of  wheat  for  a  penny,  and 
three  measures  of  barley  for  a  penny ;  and  see  thou  hurt 
not  the  oil  and  the  wine.  And  when  he  had  opened  the 
fourth  seal,  I  heard  the  voice  of  the  fourth  beast  say. 
Come  and  see.  And  I  looked,  and  behold  a  pale  horse ;  20 
and  his  name  that  sat  on  him  was  death,  and  Hell  fol- 
lowed with  him.  And  power  was  given  unto  them  over 
the  fourth  part  of  the  earth,  to  kill  with  sword  and  with 
hunger,  and  with  death,  and  with  the  beasts  of  the  earth. 
And  when  he  had  opened  the  fifth  seal,  I  saw  under  the  25 
altar  the  souls  of  them  that  were  slain  for  the  word  of 
Cxod,  and  for  the  testimony  which  they  held.  And  they 
cried  with  a  loud  voice,  saying,  How  long,  O  Lord,  holy 
and  true,  dost  thou  not  judge  and  avenge  our  blood  on 


SELECTIONS  FROM    THE  BIBLE  1 55 

them  that  dwell  on  earth  ?  And  white  robes  were  given  30 
unto  every  one  of  them  ;  and  it  was  said  unto  them,  that 
they  should  rest  yet  for  a  little  season,  until  their  fellow- 
servants  also  and  their  brethren,  that  should  be  killed  as 
they  were,  should  be  fulfilled.  And  I  beheld  when  he 
had  opened  the  sixth  seal,  and  lo,  there  was  a  great  earth-  35 
quake ;  and  the  sun  became  black  as  sackcloth  of  hair, 
and  the  moon  became  as  blood.  And  the  stars  of  heaven 
fell  unto  the  earth,  even  as  a  fig  tree  casteth  her  untimely 
figs,  when  she  is  shaken  of  a  mighty  wind.  And  the 
heaven  departed  as  a  scroll  when  it  is  rolled  together ;  40 
and  every  mountain  and  island  were  moved  otit  of  their 
places.  And  then  the  kings  of  the  earth,  and  the  great 
men,  and  the  rich  men,  and  the  chief  captains,  and  the 
mighty  men,  and  every  bondman,  and  every  free  man, 
hid  themselves  in  the  dens  and  in  the  rocks  of  the  45 
mountains ;  and  said  to  the  mountains  and  rocks.  Fall 
on  us,  and  hide  us  from  the  face  of  him  that  sitteth  on 
the  throne,  and  from  the  wrath  of  the  Lamb ;  For  the 
great  day  of  his  wrath  is  come,  and  who  shall  be  able  to 
stand  ?  50 


FRANCIS    BACON 

(1561-1626) 

ESSAYES 
Of  Truth 

What  is  Truth;  said  jesting  Pilate ;  And  would  not 
stay  for  an  Answer.  Certainly  there  be,  that  delight  in 
Giddinesse ;  And  count  it  a  Bondage,  to  fix  a  Beleefe  ; 
Affecting  Freewill  in  Thinking,  as  well  as  in  Acting.  And 
though  the  Sects  of  Philosophers  of  that  Kinde  be  gone,  5 
yet  there  remaine  certaine  discoursing  Wits,  which  are  of 
the  same  veines,  though  there  be  not  so  much  Bloud  in 
them,  as  was  in  those  of  the  Ancients.  But  it  is  not  onely 
the  Difficultie,  and  Labour,  which  Men  take  in  finding 
out  of  Truth  ;  Nor  againe,  that  when  it  is  found,  it  im-  10 
poseth  upon  mens  Thoughts ;  that  doth  bring  Lies  in 
favour  :  But  a  naturall,  though  corrupt  Love,  of  the  Lie  it 
selfe.  One  of  the  later  Schoole  of  the  Grecians,  exam- 
ineth  the  matter,  and  is  at  a  stand,  to  thinke  what  should 
be  in  it,  that  men  should  love  Lies ;  Where  neither  they  15 
make  for  Pleasure,  as  with  Poet? ;  Nor  for  Advantage,  as 
with  the  Merchant ;  but  for  the  Lies  sake.  But  I  cannot 
tell :  This  same  Truth,  is  a  Naked,  and  Open  day  light, 
that  doth  not  shew,  the  Masques,  and  Mummeries,  and 
Triumphs  of  the  world,  halfe  so  Stately,  and  daintily,  as  20 
Candlelights.  Truth  may  perhaps  come  to  the  price  of  a 
Pearle,  that  sheweth  best  by  day  :  But  it  will  not  rise,  to 
the  price  of  a  Diamond,  or  Carbuncle,  that  sheweth  best 

156 


BACON  157 

in   varied   lights.     A  mixture  of  a  Lie  doth  ever  adde 
Pleasure.     Doth  any  man  doubt,  that  if  there  were  taken  25 
out  of  Mens  Mindes,  Vaine  Opinions,  Flattering  Hopes, 
False  valuations,  Imaginations  as  one  would,  and  the  like ; 
but  it  would  leave  the  Mindes,  of  a  Number  of  Men, 
poore  shrunken  Things ;   full  of  Melancholy,  and  Indis- 
position, and  unpleasing  to   themselves?     One   of  the  30 
Fathers,  in   great   Severity,  called  Poesie,   Vinum  Dcb- 
monuvi ;  because  it  filleth  the  Imagination,  and  yet  it  is, 
but  with  the  shadow  of  a  Lie.     But  it  is  not  the  Lie,  that 
passeth  through  the  Minde,  but  the  Lie  that  sinketh  in, 
and  setleth  in  it,  that  doth  the  hurt,  such  as  we  spake  of  35 
before.     But  howsoever  these  things  are  thus,  in  men's 
depraved  Judgements,  and  Affections,  yet  Truth,  which 
onely  doth  judge  it  selfe,  teacheth,  that  the  Inquirie  of 
Truth,  which  is  the  Love-making,  or  Wooing  of  it ;  The 
knowledge  of  Truth,  which  is  the  presence  of  it ;   and  40 
the  Beleefe  of  Truth,  which  is  the  Enjoying  of  it ;  is  the 
Soveraigne  Good  of  humane  Nature.     The  first  Creature 
of  God,  in  the  workes  of  the  Dayes,  was  the  Light  of  the 
Sense ;  The  last,  was  the  Light  of  Reason  ;  And  his  Sab- 
bath Worke,  ever  since,  is  the  Illumination  of  his  Spirit.  45 
First  he  breathed  Light,  upon  the  Face,  or  the  Matter  or 
Chaos ;  Then  he  breathed  Light,  into  the  Face  of  Man ; 
and  still  he  breatheth  and  inspireth  Light,  into  the  Face 
of  his  Chosen.     The  Poet,  that  beautified  the  Sect,  that 
was  othenvise  inferiour  to  the  rest,  saith  yet  excellently  50 
well :    It  is  a  pleasure  to  stand  upon  the  shore,  and  to  see 
ships  tost  upon  the  Sea  :  A  pleasure  to  stand  in  the  win- 
doiv  of  a  Castle,  and  to  see  a  Battaile,  and  the  Advent- 
ures thereof,  below :   But  no  pleasui-e  is  comparable,  to 
the  standing,  upon  the  vantage  ground  of  Truth :   (A  hill  55 
not  to  be  commanded,  and  where  the  Ayre  is  alwaies 


158  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

cleare  and  serene ;)  And  (0  see  the  Errours,  and  Wan- 
drings,  and  Mists,  and  Tempests,  in  the  vale  below :  So 
alwaies,  that  this  prospect,  be  with  Pitty,  and  not  with 
Swelling,  or  Pride.  Certainly,  it  is  Heaven  upon  Earth,  60 
to  have  a  Mans  Minde  Move  in  Charitie,  Rest  in  Prov- 
idence, and  turne  upon  the  Poles  of  Truth. 

To  passe  from  Theologicall,  and  Philosophicall  Truth, 
to  the  Truth  of  civill  Businesse ;  It  will  be  acknowledged, 
even  by  those,  that  practize  it  not,  that  cleare  and  Round  65 
dealing,  is  the  honour  of  Mans  Nature  ;  And  that  Mixture 
of  Falshood,  is  like  Allay  in  Coyne  of  Gold  and  Silver ; 
which  may  make  the  Metall  worke  the  better,  but  it  em- 
baseth  it.  For  these  winding,  and  crooked  courses,  are 
the  Goings  of  the  Serpent ;  which  goeth  basely  upon  the  70 
belly,  and  not  upon  the  Feet.  There  is  no  Vice,  that 
doth  so  cover  a  Man  with  Shame,  as  to  be  found  false, 
and  perfidious.  And  therefore  Mountaigny  saith  prettily, 
when  he  enquired  the  reason,  why  the  word  of  the  Lie, 
should  be  such  a  Disgrace,  and  such  an  Odious  Charge?  75 
Saith  he.  If  it  be  well  weighed.  To  say  that  a  man  lieth, 
is  as  much  to  say,  as  that  he  is  brave  towards  God, 
and  a  Coward  towards  Men.  For  a  Lie  faces  God,  and 
shrinkes  from  Man.  Surely  the  VVickednesse  of  Falshood, 
and  Breach  of  Faith,  cannot  possibly  be  so  highly  ex-  80 
pressed,  as  in  that  it  shall  be  the  last  Peale,  to  call  the 
Judgements  of  God,  upon  the  Generations  of  Men,  it 
being  foretold,  that  when  Christ  commeth.  He  shall  not 
finde  Faith  upon  the  Earth. 

Of  Revenge 

Revenge  is  a  kinde  of  Wilde  Justice  ;  which  the  more 
Mans  Nature  runs  to,  the  more  ought  Law  to  weed  it  out. 
For  as  for  the  first  Wrong,  it  doth  but  offend  the  Law ; 


BACON  159 

but  the  Revenge  of  that  wrong,  putteth  the  Law  out  of 
Office.     Certainly,  in  taking  Revenge,  A  Man  is  but  even    5 
with  his  Enemy ;  But  in  passing  it  over,  he  is  Superior : 
For  it  is  a  Princes  part  to  Pardon.     And  Salomon,  I  am 
sure,  saith.  It  is  the  glory  of  a  Man  to  passe  by  an  offence. 
That  which  is  past,  is  gone,  and  Irrevocable ;  And  wise 
Men  have  Enough  to  doe,  with  things  present,  and  to  10 
come :   Therefore,  they  doe  but  trifle  with  themselves, 
that  labor  in   past  matters.     There  is  no  man,  doth  a 
wrong,  for  the  wrongs  sake  ;  But  therby  to  purchase  him- 
selfe,  Profit,  or  Pleasure,  or  Honour,  or  the  like.     Ther- 
fore,  why  should   I   be  angry  with    a  Man,  for    loving  15 
himselfe  better  than  mee  ?    And  if  any  Man  should  doe 
wrong,  meerely  out  of  ill  nature,  why  ?  yet  it  is  but  like 
the  Thorn,  or  Bryar,  which  prick,  and  scratch,  because 
they  can  doe  no  other.     The  most  Tolerable  Sort  of  Re- 
venge, is  for  those  wrongs  which  there  is  no  Law  to  rem-  20 
edy  :  But  then,  let  a  man  take  heed,  the  Revenge  be  such, 
as  there  is  no  law  to  punish  :  Else,  a  Mans  Enemy  is  still 
before  hand,  And  it  is  two  for  one.     Some,  when  they 
take   Revenge,   are    Desirous    the    party    should    know, 
whence  it  commeth  :   This  is  the  more  Generous.     For  25 
the  Delight  seemeth  to  be,  not  so  much  in  doing  the 
Hurt,  as  in  Making  the  Party  repent :    But  Base  and 
Crafty  Cowards,  are  like  the  Arrow,  that  flyeth  in  the 
Darke.      Costnus  Duke  of  Florence,  had  a   Desperate 
Saying,  against  Perfidious  or  Neglecting  Friends,  as  if  30 
those  wrongs  were  unpardonable  :    You  shall  reade  (saith 
he)  that  we  are  commanded  to  forgive  our  Enemies  ;  But 
you  never  read,  that  wee  are  commanded,  to  forgive  our 
Friends.     But  yet  the  Spirit  oijob,  was  in  a  better  tune ; 
Shall  wee  (saith  he)  take  good  at  Gods  Hands,  atid  not  35 
be  content  to  take  evill  also  ?    And  so  of  Friends  in  a 


l6o  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

proportion.  This  is  certaine  ;  That  a  Man  that  studieth 
Revenge^  keepes  his  owne  Wounds  greene,  which  otherwise 
would  heale,  and  doe  well.  Publique  Revenges,  are,  for 
the  most  part,  Fortunate ;  As  that  for  the  Death  of  40 
CcBsar;  For  the  Death  of  Pertinax ;  for  the  Death  of 
Henry  the  Third  of  France ;  And  many  more.  But  in 
private  Revenges  it  is  not  so.  Nay  rather,  Vindicative 
Persons  live  the  Life  of  Witches ;  who  as  they  are  Mis- 
chievous, So  end  they  Infortunate.  45 

Of  Studies 

Studies  serve  for  Delight,  for  Ornament,  and  for 
Ability.  Their  Chiefe  Use  for  Delight,  is  in  Privatenesse 
and  Retiring ;  For  Ornament,  is  in  Discourse ;  And  for 
Ability,  is  in  the  Judgement  and  Disposition  of  Businesse. 
For  Expert  Men  can  Execute,  and  perhaps  Judge  of  5 
particulars,  one  by  one ;  But  the  generall  Counsels,  and 
the  Plots,  and  Marshalling  of  Affaires,  come  best  from 
those  that  are  Learned.  To  spend  too  much  Time  in 
Studies,  is  Sloth ;  To  use  them  too  much  for  Ornament, 
is  Affectation ;  To  make  Judgement  wholly  by  their  10 
Rules  is  the  Humour  of  a  Scholler.  They  perfect  Nature, 
and  are  perfected  by  Experience :  For  Naturall  Abili- 
ties, are  like  Naturall  Plants,  that  need  Proyning  by 
Study :  And  Studies  themselves,  doe  give  forth  Directions 
too  much  at  I^rge,  except  they  be  bounded  in  by  ex-  15 
perience.  Crafty  Men  Contemne  Studies ;  Simple  Men 
Admire  them ;  And  Wise  Men  Use  them ;  For  they  teach 
not  their  owne  Use ;  But  that  is  a  Wisdome  without  them, 
and  above  them,  won  by  Observation.  Reade  not  to 
Contradict,  and  Confute ;  Nor  to  beleeve  and  Take  for  20 
granted ;    Nor  to  Finde  Talke  and   Discourse ;    But  to 


BACON  l6l 

weigh  and  Consider.  Some  Bookes  are  to  be  Tasted, 
Others  to  be  Swallowed,  and  Some  Few  to  be  Chewed  and 
Digested  :  That  is,  some  Bookes  are  to  be  read  onely  in 
Parts ;  Others  to  be  read  but  not  Curiously ;  And  some  25 
Few  to  be  read  wholly,  and  with  Diligence  and  Attention. 
Some  Bookes  also  may  be  read  by  Deputy,  and  Extracts 
made  of  tRem  by  Others  :  But  that  would  be,  onely  in  the 
lesse  important  Arguments,  and  the  Meaner  Sort  of 
Bookes :  else  distilled  Bookes,  are  like  Common  distilled  30 
Waters,  Flashy  Things.  Reading  maketh  a  Full  Man ; 
Conference  a  Ready  Man ;  And  Writing  an  Exact  Man. 
And  therefore,  If  a  Man  Write  little,  he  had  need  have  a 
Great  Memory ;  If  he  Conferre  little,  he  had  need  have 
a  Present  Wit ;  And  if  he  Reade  litle,  he  had  need  have  35 
much  Cunning,  to  seeme  to  know  that,  he  doth  not. 
Histories  make  Men  Wise;  Poets  Witty;  The  Mathe- 
maticks  Subtill ;  Naturall  Philosophy  deepe ;  Moral! 
Grave ;  Logick  and  Rhetorick  Able  to  Contend.  Abeunt 
studia  in  Mores.  Nay  there  is  no  stond  or  Impediment  40 
in  the  Wit,  but  may  be  wrought  out  by  Fit  Studies: 
Like  as  Diseases  of  the  Body,  may  have  Appropriate 
Exercises.  Bowling  is  good  for  the  Stone  and  Reines ; 
Shooting  for  the  Lungs  and  Breast ;  Gentle  Walking  for 
the  Stomacke  ;  Riding  for  the  Head ;  And  the  like.  So  45 
if  a  Mans  Wit  be  Wandring,  let  him  Study  the  Mathe- 
fnaticks ;  For  in  Demonstrations,  if  his  Wit  be  called 
away  never  so  little,  he  must  begin  again :  If  his  Wit  be 
not  Apt  to  distinguish  or  find  differences,  let  him  Study 
the  Schoole-men  ;  For  they  are  Cyfnini  sectores.  If  he  be  50 
not  Apt  to  beat  over  Matters,  and  to  call  up  one  Thing, 
to  Prove  and  Illustrate  another,  let  him  Study  the 
Lawyers  Cases :  So  every  Defect  of  the  Minde,  may  have 
a  Speciall  Receit. 

M 


BEN   JONSON 

(1573-1637)  • 

THE   BARRIERS 
Truth 

Upon  her  head  she  wears  a  crown  of  stars, 
Through  which  her  orient  hair  waves  to  her  waist, 
By  which  beUeving  mortals  hold  her  fast. 
And  in  those  golden  cords  are  carried  even, 
Till  with  her  breath  she  blows  them  up  to  heaven. 
She  wears  a  robe  enchased  with  eagles'  eyes, 
To  signify  her  sight  in  mysteries  : 
Upon  each  shoulder  sits  a  milk-white  dove. 
And  at  her  feet  do  witty  serpents  move  : 
Her  spacious  arms  do  reach  from  east  to  west, 
And  you  may  see  her  heart  shine  through  her  breast. 
Her  right  hand  holds  a  sun  with  burning  rays. 
Her  left  a  curious  bunch  of  golden  keys, 
With  which  heaven's  gates  she  locketh  and  displays. 
A  crystal  mirror  hangeth  at  her  breast, 
By  which  men's  consciences  are  searched  and  drest : 
On  her  coach-wheels  Hypocrisy  lies  racked ; 
And  squint-eyed  Slander  with  Vainglory  backed 
Her  bright  eyes  burn  to  dust,  in  which  shines  Fate  : 
An  angel  ushers  her  triumphant  gait, 
Whilst  with  her  fingers  fans  of  stars  she  twists. 
And  with  them  beats  back  Error,  clad  in  mists. 
162 


JONSON  163 

Eternal  Unity  behind  her  shines, 

That  fire  and  water,  earth  and  air  combines. 

Her  voice  is  hke  a  trumpet  loud  and  shrill,  25 

Which  bids  all  sounds  in  earth  and  heaven  be  still. 


TO   CELIA 

Drink  to  me  only  with  thine  eyes. 

And  I  will  pledge  with  mine  ; 
Or  leave  a  kiss  but  in  the  cup, 

And  I'll  not  look  for  wine. 
The  thirst  that  from  the  soul  doth  rise, 

Doth  ask  a  drink  divine  : 
But  might  I  of  Jove's  nectar  sup, 

I  would  not  change  for  thine. 

I  sent  thee  late  a  rosy  wreath, 

Not  so  much  honouring  thee, 
As  giving  it  a  hope,  that  there 

It  could  not  withered  be. 
But  thou  thereon  didst  only  breathe. 

And  sent'st  it  back  to  me  : 
Since  when  it  grows,  and  smells,  I  swear, 

Not  of  itself,  but  thee. 


SONG 

Still  to  be  neat,  still  to  be  drest. 

As  you  are  going  to  a  feast ; 

Still  to  be  powdered,  still  perfumed  : 

Lady,  it  is  to  be  presumed. 

Though  art's  hid  causes  are  not  found. 

All  is  not  sweet,  all  is  not  sound. 


1 64  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

Give  me  a  look,  give  me  a  face, 
That  makes  simplicity  a  grace  ; 
Robes  loosely  flowing,  hair  as  free  : 
Such  sweet  neglect  more  taketh  me 
Than  all  the  adulteries  of  art : 
They  strike  mine  eyes,  but  not  my  heart. 


THE   SHEPHERDS'   HOLIDAY 

First  Nymph 

Thus,  thus  begin,  the  yearly  rites 
Are  due  to  Pan  on  these  bright  nights ; 
His  morn  now  riseth  and  invites 
To  sports,  to  dances,  and  delights : 

All  envious  and  profane,  away ! 

This  is  the  shepherds'  holiday. 

Second  Nymph 

Strew,  strew  the  glad  and  smiling  ground 
With  every  flower,  yet  not  confound ; 
The  primrose  drop,  the  spring's  own  spouse, 
Bright  day's-eyes,  and  the  lips  of  cows. 
The  garden-star,  the  queen  of  May, 
The  rose,  to  crown  the  holiday. 

Third  Nymph 

Drop,  drop  your  violets,  change  your  hues 
Now  red,  now  pale,  as  lovers  use. 
And  in  your  death  go  out  as  well, 
As  when  you  lived  unto  the  smell : 

That  from  your  odour  all  may  say, 

This  is  the  shepherds'  holiday. 


joNSOjsr  165 

AN   EPITAPH    ON    SALATHIEL    PAVY,  A   CHILD   OF 
QUEEN   ELIZABETH'S   CHAPEL 

Weep  with  me,  all  you  that  read 

This  little  story ; 
And  know,  for  whom  a  tear  you  shed 

Death's  self  is  sorry. 
'Twas  a  child  that  so  did  thrive  5 

In  grace  and  feature, 
As  heaven  and  nature  seemed  to  strive 

^^'hich  owned  the  creature. 
Years  he  numbered  scarce  thirteen 

When  Fates  turned  cruel,  ao 

Yet  three  filled  zodiacs  had  he  been 

The  stage's  jewel ; 
And  did  act,  what  now  we  moan, 

Old  men  so  duly, 
As,  sooth,  the  Parcae  thought  him  one,  —  15 

He  played  so  truly. 
So,  by  error  to  his  fate 

They  all  consented ; 
But  viewing  him  since,  alas,  too  late 

They  have  repented ;  20 

And  have  sought  to  give  new  birth 

In  baths  to  steep  him  ; 
But  being  so  much  too  good  for  earth. 

Heaven  vows  to  keep  him. 


1 66  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

TO  THE  MEMORY  OF  MY  BELOVED  MASTER 
WILLIAM  SHAKSPEARE  AND  WHAT  HE  HATH 
LEFT    US 

To  draw  no  envy,  Shakspeare,  on  thy  name, 
Am  I  thus  ample  to  thy  book  and  fame ; 
While  I  confess  thy  writings  to  be  such, 
As  neither  Man  nor  Muse  can  praise  too  much. 
'Tis  true,  and  all  men's  suffrage.     But  these  ways         5 
Were  not  the  paths  I  meant  unto  thy  praise ; 
For  seeliest  ignorance  on  these  may  light, 
Which,  when  it  sounds  at  best,  but  echoes  right ; 
Or  Wind  affection,  which  doth  ne'er  advance 
The  truth,  but  gropes,  and  urgeth  all  by  chance ;         10 
Or  crafty  malice  might  pretend  this  praise, 
And  think  to  ruin  where  it  seemed  to  raise. 
These  are,  as  some  infamous  bawd  .  .  . 
Should  praise  a  matron  ;   what  could  hurt  her  more? 
But  thou  art  proof  against  them  and,  indeed,  15 

Above  the  ill  fortune  of  them,  or  the  need. 
I  therefore  will  begin ;   Soul  of  the  age  ! 
The  applause,  delight,  the  wonder  of  our  stage  ! 
My  Shakspeare,  rise  !  I  will  not  lodge  thee  by 
Chaucer,  or  Spenser,  or  bid  Beaumont  lie  20 

A  little  further  to  make  thee  a  room  : 
Thou  art  a  monument  without  a  tomb. 
And  art  alive  still  while  thy  book  doth  live, 
And  we  have  wits  to  read,  and  praise  to  give. 
That  I  not  mix  thee  so  my  brain  excuses, —  25 

■  I  mean  with  great,  but  disproportioned  Muses ; 
For  if  I  thought  my  judgment  were  of  years, 
I  should  commit  thee  surely  with  thy  peers, 


JONSON  167 

And  tell  how  far  thou  didst  our  Lyly  outshine, 

Or  sporting  Kyd,  or  Marlowe's  mighty  line.  30 

And  though  thou  hadst  small  Latin  and  less  Greek, 

From  thence  to  honour  thee  I  would  not  seek 

For  names,  but  call  forth  thund'ring  ^schylus, 

Euripides,  and  Sophocles  to  us, 

Pacuvius,  Accius,  him  of  Cordova  dead,  35 

To  life  again,  to  hear  thy  buskin  tread. 

And  shake  a  stage ;  or  when  thy  socks  were  on, 

Leave  thee  alone  for  a  comparison 

Of  all  that  insolent  Greece  or  haughty  Rome 

Sent  forth,  or  since  did  from  their  ashes  come.  40 

Triumph,  my  Britain,  tliou  hast  one  to  show, 

To  whom  all  scenes  of  Europe  homage  owe. 

He  was  not  of  an  age,  but  for  all  time  ! 

And  all  the  Muses  still  were  in  their  prime. 

When,  like  Apollo,  he  came  forth  to  warm  45 

Our  ears,  or  like  a  Mercury  to  charm  ! 

Nature  herself  was  proud  of  his  designs. 

And  joyed  to  wear  the  dressing  of  his  Hnes, 

Which  were  so  richly  spun,  and  woven  so  fit, 

As,  since,  she  will  vouchsafe  no  other  wit.  50 

The  merry  Greek,  tart  Aristophanes, 

Neat  Terence,  witty  Platus,  now  not  please ; 

But  antiquated  and  deserted  lie. 

As  they  were  not  of  Nature's  family. 

Yet  must  I  not  give  Nature  all ;  thy  Art,  55 

My  gentle  Shakspeare,  must  enjoy  a  part. 

For  though  the  poet's  matter  nature  be. 

His  art  doth  give  the  fashion ;  and  that  he 

Who  casts  to  write  a  living  line,  must  sweat 

(Such  as  thine  are)  and  strike  the  second  heat  60 

Upon  the  Muses'  anvil,  turn  the  same, 


l68  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

And  himself  with  it,  that  he  thinks  to  frame ; 

Or  for  the  laurel  he  may  gain  to  scorn ; 

For  a  good  poet's  made,  as  well  as  born. 

And  such  wert  thou  !     Look,  how  the  father's  face  65 

Lives  in  his  issue,  even  so  the  race 

Of  Shakspeare's  mind  and  manners  brightly  shines 

In  his  well  turned  and  true  filed  lines. 

In  each  of  which  he  seems  to  shake  a  lance, 

As  brandished  at  the  eyes  of  ignorance.  70 

Sweet  Swan  of  Avon  !  what  a  sight  it  were 

To  see  thee  in  our  waters  yet  appear, 

And  make  those  flights  upon  the  banks  of  Thames, 

That  so  did  take  Eliza  and  our  James  ! 

But  stay,  I  see  thee  in  the  hemisphere  75 

Advanced,  and  made  a  constellation  there  ! 

Shine  forth,  thou  Star  of  Poets,  and  with  rage 

Or  influence  chide  or  cheer  the  drooping  stage. 

Which,  since  thy  flight  from  hence,  hath  mourned  like  night, 

And  despairs  day  but  for  thy  volume's  light.  80 


TO   HEAVEN 


Good  and  great  God  !  can  I  not  think  of  Thee, 

But  it  must  straight  my  melancholy  be  ? 

Is  it  interpreted  in  me  disease. 

That,  laden  with  my  sins,  I  seek  for  ease  ? 

O  be  Thou  witness,  that  the  reins  dost  know 

And  hearts  of  all,  if  I  be  sad  for  show ; 

And  judge  me  after,  if  I  dare  pretend 

To  aught  but  grace,  or  aim  at  other  end. 

As  Thou  art  all,  so  be  Thou  all  to  me, 

First,  midst,  and  last,  converted  One  and  Three  ! 


JON  SON  169 

My  faith,  my  hope,  my  love  ;  and,  in  this  state. 

My  judge,  my  witness,  and  my  advocate  ! 

Where  have  I  been  this  while  exiled  from  Thee, 

And  whither  rapt,  now  Thou  but  stoop'st  to  me? 

Dwell,  dwell  here  still !     O,  being  everywhere,  15 

How  can  I  doubt  to  find  Thee  ever  here? 

I  know  my  state,  both  full  of  shame  and  scorn. 

Conceived  in  sin,  and  unto  labour  born. 

Standing  with  fear,  and  must  with  horror  fall. 

And  destined  unto  judgment,  after  all.  20 

I  feel  my  griefs  too,  and  there  scarce  is  ground 

Upon  my  flesh  t'  inflict  another  wound ;  — 

Yet  dare  I  not  complain  or  wish  for  death. 

With  holy  Paul,  lest  it  be  thought  the  breath 

Of  discontent ;  or  that  these  prayers  be  25 

For  weariness  of  hfe,  not  love  of  Thee. 


EPITAPH   ON   THE   COUNTESS   OF   PEMBROKE 

Underneath  this  sable  hearse 
Lies  the  subject  of  all  verse, 
Sidney's  sister,  Pembroke's  mother; 
Death  !  ere  thou  hast  slain  another, 
Learn'd  and  fair,  and  good  as  she. 
Time  shall  throw  a  dart  at  thee. 


DISCOVERIES 

Law  of  Use 

It  is  not  the  passing  through  these  learnings  that  hurts 
us,  but  the  dwelling  and  sticking  about  them.    To  descend 


I/O  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

to  those  extreme  anxieties  and  foolish  cavils  of  gramma- 
rians, is  able  to  break  a  wit  in  pieces,  being  a  work  of 
manifold  misery  and  vainness,  to  be  elementarii  senes.  s 
Yet  even  letters  are  as  it  were  the  bank  of  words,  and  re- 
store themselves  to  an  author,  as  the  pawns  of  language  : 
but  talking  and  eloquence  are  not  the  same  :  to  speak, 
and  to  speak  well,  are  two  things.  A  fool  may  talk,  but 
a  wise  man  speaks,  and  out  of  the  observation,  knowl-  lo 
edge,  and  the  use  of  things,  many  writers  perplex  their 
readers  and  hearers  with  mere  nonsense.  Their  writings 
need  sunshine.  Pure  and  neat  language  I  love,  yet  plain 
and  customary.  A  barbarous  phrase  has  often  made  me 
out  of  love  with  a  good  sense,  and  doubtful  writing  hath  15 
wracked  me  beyond  my  patience.  The  reason  why  a 
poet  is  said  that  he  ought  to  have  all  knowledges  is, 
that  he  should  not  be  ignorant  of  the  most,  especially  of 
those  he  will  handle.  And  indeed,  when  the  attaining  of 
them  is  possible,  it  were  a  sluggish  and  base  thing  to  de-  20 
spair.  For  frequent  imitation  of  anything  becomes  a 
habit  quickly.  If  a  man  should  prosecute  as  much  as 
could  be  said  of  every  thing,  his  work  would  find  no  end. 
Speech  is  the  only  benefit  man  hath  to  express  his 
excellency  of  mind  above  other  creatures.  It  is  the  25 
instrument  of  society;  therefore  Mercury,  who  is  the 
president  of  language,  is  called  Deorum  hotninumque 
interpres.  In  all  speech,  words  and  sense  are  as  the 
body  and  the  soul.  The  sense  is,  as  the  life  and  soul 
of  language,  without  which  all  words  are  dead.  Sense  is  30 
wrought  out  of  experience,  the  knowledge  of  human  life 
and  actions,  or  of  the  liberal  arts,  which  the  Greeks  called 
'EvKVKA.oTTatSctaj'.  Words  are  the  people's,  yet  there  is 
a  choice  of  them  to  be  made.  For  Verborum  delectus 
origo  est  eloquently.    They  are  to  be  chose  according  to  35 


JONSON  171 

the  persons  we  make  speak,  or  the  things  we  speak  of. 
Some  are  of  the  camp,  some  of  the  council-board,  some 
of  the  shop,  some  of  the  sheep-cote,  some  of  the  pulpit, 
some  of  the  bar,  &c.  And  herein  is  seen  their  elegance 
and  propriety,  when  we  use  them  fitly,  and  draw  them  40 
forth  to  their  just  strength  and  nature,  by  way  of  transla- 
tion or  metaphor.  But  in  this  translation  we  must  only 
serve  necessity  {Nam  temere  nihil  tratisferatur  a  pru- 
denti) ,  or  commodity,  which  is  a  kind  of  necessity :  that 
is,  when  we  either  absolutely  want  a  word  to  express  by,  45 
and  that  is  necessity ;  or  when  we  have  not  so  fit  a  word, 
and  that  is  commodity ;  as  when  we  avoid  loss  by  it,  and 
escape  obsceneness,  and  gain  in  the  grace  and  property 
which  helps  significance.  Metaphors  far-fet,  hinder  to 
be  understood ;  and  affected,  lose  their  grace.  Or  when  50 
the  person  fetcheth  his  translations  from  a  wrong  place. 
As  if  a  privy-counsellor  should  at  the  table  take  his  meta- 
phor from  a  dicing-house,  or  ordinary,  or  a  vintner's 
vault ;  or  a  justice  of  peace  draw  his  similitudes  from  the 
mathematics,  or  a  divine  from  a  bawdy-house,  or  taverns  ;  55 
or  a  gentleman  of  Northamptonshire,  Warwickshire,  or 
the  Midland,  should  fetch  all  the  illustrations  to  his 
country  neighbours  from  shipping,  and  tell  them  of  the 
mainsheet  and  the  boulin.  Metaphors  are  thus  many 
times  deformed.  ...  All  attempts  that  are  new  in  this  60 
kind,  are  dangerous,  and  somewhat  hard,  before  they  be 
softened  with  use.  A  man  coins  not  a  new  word  without 
some  peril,  and  less  fruit;  for  if  it  happen  to  be  re- 
ceived, the  praise  is  but  moderate  ;  if  refused,  the  scorn 
is  assured.  Yet  we  must  adventure ;  for  things,  at  first  65 
hard  and  rough,  are  by  use  made  tender  and  gentle. 
It  is  an  honest  error  that  is  committed,  following  great 
chiefs. 


1/2  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

Custom  is  the  most  certain  mistress  of  language,  as  the 
public  stamp  makes  the  current  money.     But  we  must  70 
not  be  too  frequent  with  the  mint,  every  day  coining,  nor 
fetch  words  from  the  extreme  and  utmost  ages ;  since  the 
chief  virtue  of  a  style  is  perspicuity,  and  nothing  so  vicious 
in  it  as  to  need  an  interpreter.     Words  borrowed  of  an- 
tiquity do  lend  a  kind  of  majesty  to  style,  and  are  not  75 
without   their   delight   sometimes.     For   they   have   the 
authority  of  years,  and  out  of  their  intermission  do  win 
themselves  a  kind  of  grace-like  newness.     But  the  eldest 
of  the  present,  and  newness  of  the  past  language,  is  the 
best     For  what  was  the  ancient  language,  which  some  80 
men  so  dote  upon,  but   the  ancient   custom?  yet  when 
I   name  custom,  I  understand  not  the  vulgar  custom; 
for  that  were  a  precept  no  less  dangerous  to  language 
than  life,  if  we  should  speak  or  live  after  the  manners 
of  the  vulgar :    but  that  I  call  custom  of  speech,  which  85 
is  the  consent  of  the  learned ;  as  custom  of  life,  which  is 
the  consent  of  the  good. 


JOHN    MILTON 

(1608-1674) 

AT   A   SOLEMN   MUSIC 

Blest  pair  of  Sirens,  pledges  of  Heaven's  joy, 
Sphere-born  harmonious  sisters.  Voice  and  Verse, 
Wed  your  divine  sounds,  and  mixed  power  employ. 
Dead  things  with  inbreathed  sense  able  to  pierce ; 
And  to  our  high-raised  phantasy  present  5 

That  undisturbed  song  of  pure  concent. 
Aye  sung  before  the  sapphire-coloured  throne 
To  Him  that  sits  thereon. 
With  saintly  shout  and  solemn  jubilee ; 
Where  the  bright  Seraphim  in  burning  row  xo 

Their  loud  uplifted  angel-trumpets  blow. 
And  the  Cherubic  host  in  thousand  quires 
Touch  their  immortal  harps  of  golden  wires. 
With  those  just  Spirits  that  wear  victorious  palms. 
Hymns  devout  and  holy  psalms  15 

Singing  everlastingly  : 

That  we  on  Earth,  with  undiscording  voice, 
May  rightly  answer  that  melodious  noise ; 
As  once  we  did,  till  disproportioned  sin 
Jarred  against  nature's  chime,  and  with  harsh  din  20 

Broke  the  fair  music  that  all  creatures  made 
To  their  great  Lord,  whose  love  their  motion  swayed 
In  perfect  diapason,  whilst  they  stood 
In  first  obedience,  and  their  state  of  good. 
»73 


174  FROM   CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

O,  may  we  soon  again  renew  that  song,  25 

And  keep  in  tune  with  Heaven,  till  God  ere  long 
To  his  celestial  consort  us  unite, 
To  live  with  Him,  and  sing  in  endless  morn  of  light ! 


SONG  ON    MAY   MORNING 

Now  the  bright  morning-star,  Day's  harbinger. 
Comes  dancing  from  the  east,  and  leads  with  her 
The  flowery  May,  who  from  her  green  lap  throws 
The  yellow  cowslip  and  the  pale  primrose. 

Hail,  bounteous  May,  that  dost  inspire 

Mirth,  and  youth,  and  warm  desire  ! 

Woods  and  groves  are  of  thy  dressing ; 

Hill  and  dale  doth  boast  thy  blessing. 
Thus  we  salute  thee  with  our  early  song. 
And  welcome  thee,  and  wish  thee  long. 


ON   SHAKESPEARE 

What  needs  my  Shakespeare  for  his  honoured  bones 

The  labour  of  an  age  in  pilfed  stones  ? 

Or  that  his  hallowed  reliques  should  be  hid 

Under  a  star-ypointing  pyramid  ? 

Dear  son  of  memory,  great  heir  of  fame, 

What  need'st  thou  such  weak  witness  of  thy  name? 

Thou  in  our  wonder  and  astonishment 

Hast  built  thyself  a  livelong  monument. 

For  whilst,  to  the  shame  of  slow-endeavouring  art, 

Thy  easy  numbers  flow,  and  that  each  heart 


MILTON  175 

Hath  from  the  leaves  of  thy  unvalued  book 

Those  Delphic  lines  with  deep  impression  took, 

Then  thou,  our  fancy  of  itself  bereaving. 

Dost  make  us  marble  with  too  much  conceiving, 

And  so  sepillchred  in  such  pomp  dost  lie  15 

That  kings  for  such  a  tomb  would  wish  to  die. 


ON   HIS   HAVING   ARRIVED   AT   THE  AGE   OF 
TWENTY-THREE 

How  soon  hath  Time,  the  subtle  thief  of  youth, 

Stolen  on  his  wing  my  three-and-twentieth  year  ! 

My  hasting  days  fly  on  with  full  career. 

But  my  late  spring  no  bud  or  blossom  shew'th. 

Perhaps  my  semblance  might  deceive  the  truth 
That  I  to  manhood  am  arrived  so  near; 
And  inward  ripeness  doth  much  less  appear. 
That  some  more  timely-happy  spirits  endu'th. 

Yet,  be  it  less  or  more,  or  soon  or  slow. 

It  shall  be  still,  in  strictest  measure  even 
To  that  same  lot,  however  mean  or  high. 

Towards  which  Time  leads  me,  and  the  will  of  Heaven. 
All  is,  if  I  have  grace  to  use  it  so, 
As  ever  in  my  great  Task-Master's  eye. 


L'ALLEGRO 

Hence,  loathed  Melancholy, 

Of  Cerberus  and  blackest  Midnight  bom 
In  Stygian  cave  forlorn 

'Mongst  horrid  shapes,  and  shrieks,  and  sights  unholy  ! 


176  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

Find  out  some  uncouth  cell,  5 

Where  brooding  darkness  spreads  his  jealous  wings. 

And  the  night-raven  sings ; 

There,  under  ebon  shades  and  low-browed  rocks. 

As  ragged  as  thy  locks, 

In  dark  Cimmerian  desert  ever  dwell  10 

But  come,  thou  Goddess  fair  and  free. 

In  heaven  yclept  Euphrosyne, 

And  by  men  heart-easing  Mirth ; 

Whom  lovely  Venus,  at  a  birth. 

With  two  sister  Graces  more,  15 

To  ivy-crowned  Bacchus  bore  : 

Or  whether  (as  some  sager  sing) 

The  frolic  wind  that  breathes  the  spring. 

Zephyr,  with  Aurora  playing, 

As  he  met  her  once  a-Maying,  ao 

There,  on  beds  of  violets  blue. 

And  fresh-blown  roses  washed  in  dew. 

Filled  her  with  thee,  a  daughter  fair. 

So  buxom,  blythe,  and  debonair. 

Haste  thee.  Nymph,  and  bring  with  thee  35 

Jest,  and  youthful  Jollity, 

Quips  and  Cranks  and  wanton  Wiles, 

Nods  and  Becks  and  wreathed  Smiles, 

Such  as  hang  on  Hebe's  cheek, 

And  love  to  live  in  dimple  sleek ;  30 

Sport  that  wrinkled  Care  derides, 

And  laughter  holding  both  his  sides. 

Come,  and  trip  it,  as  you  go. 

On  the  light  fantastic  toe ; 

And  in  thy  right  hand  lead  with  thee  35 

The  mountain-nymph,  sweet  Liberty; 

And,  if  I  give  thee  honour  due, 


MILTOM  177 

Mirth,  admit  me  of  thy  crew, 

To  live  with  her,  and  live  with  thee, 

In  unreproved  pleasures  free  ;  40 

To  hear  the  lark  begin  his  flight. 

And,  singing,  startle  the  dull  night. 

From  his  watch-tower  in  the  skies. 

Till  the  dappled  dawn  doth  rise ; 

Then  to  come,  in  spite  of  sorrow,  45 

And  at  my  window  bid  good- morrow, 

Through  the  sweet-briar  or  the  vine, 

Or  the  twisted  eglantine ; 

While  the  cock,  with  lively  din 

Scatters  the  rear  of  darkness  thin  ;  50 

And  to  the  stack,  or  the  barn-door, 

Stoutly  struts  his  dames  before  : 

Oft  listening  how  the  hounds  and  horn 

Cheerly  rouse  the  slumbering  morn. 

From  the  side  of  some  hoar  hill,  55 

Through  the  high  wood  echoing  shrill : 

Sometime  walking,  not  unseen. 

By  hedgerow  elms,  on  hillocks  green. 

Right  against  the  eastern  gate 

Where  the  great  Sun  begins  his  state,  60 

Robed  in  flames  and  amber  light. 

The  clouds  in  thousand  liveries  dight ; 

While  the  ploughman,  near  at  hand. 

Whistles  o'er  the  furrowed  land. 

And  the  milkmaid  singeth  bhthe,  65 

And  the  mower  whets  his  scythe, 

And  every  shepherd  tells  his  tale 

Under  the  hawthorn  in  the  dale. 

Straight  mine  eye  hath  caught  new  pleasures. 

Whilst  the  landskip  round  it  measures  :  70 

N 


1/8  FROAf  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

Russet  lawns,  and  fallows  grey, 

Where  the  nibbling  flocks  do  stray ; 

Mountains  on  whose  barren  breast 

The  labouring  clouds  do  often  rest ; 

Meadows  trim,  with  daisies  pied;  75 

Shallow  brooks,  and  rivers  wide ; 

Towers  and  battlements  it  sees 

Bosomed  high  in  tufted  trees, 

Where  perhaps  some  beauty  lies. 

The  cynosure  of  neighbouring  eyes.  80 

Hard  by  a  cottage  chimney  smokes 

From  betwixt  two  aged  oaks. 

Where  Corydon  and  Thyrsis  met 

Are  at  their  savoury  dinner  set 

Of  herbs  and  other  country  messes,  85 

Which  the  neat-handed  Phillis  dresses  ; 

And  then  in  haste  her  bower  she  leaves. 

With  Thestylis  to  bind  the  sheaves ; 

Or,  if  the  earlier  season  lead. 

To  the  tanned  haycock  in  the  mead.  90 

Sometimes,  with  secure  delight. 

The  upland  hamlets  will  invite. 

When  the  merry  bells  ring  round, 

And  jocund  rebecks  sound 

To  many  a  youth  and  many  a  maid  95 

Dancing  in  the  chequered  shade, 

And  young  and  old  come  forth  to  play 

On  a  sunshine  holiday. 

Till  the  livelong  daylight  fail : 

Then  to  the  spicy  nut-brown  ale,  100 

With  stories  told  of  many  a  feat. 

How  Faery  Mab  the  junkets  eat. 

She  was  pinched  and  pulled,  she  said ; 


MILTON  179 

And  he,  by  Friar's  lantern  led, 

Tells  how  the  drudging  goblin  sweat  105 

To  earn  his  cream-bowl  duly  set. 

When  in  one  night,  ere  glimpse  of  morn, 

His  shadowy  flail  hath  threshed  the  corn 

That  ten  day-labourers  could  not  end ; 

Then  lies  him  down,  the  lubber  fiend,  no 

And,  stretched  out  all  the  chimney's  length, 

Basks  at  the  fire  his  hairy  strength. 

And  crop-full  out  of  doors  he  flings. 

Ere  the  first  cock  his  matin  rings. 

Thus  done  the  tales,  to  bed  they  creep,  115 

By  whispering  winds  soon  lulled  asleep. 

Towered  cities  please  us  then. 

And  the  busy  hum  of  men, 

Where  throngs  of  knights  and  barons  bold. 

In  weeds  of  peace,  high  triumphs  hold,  120 

With  store  of  ladies,  whose  bright  eyes 

Rain  influence,  and  judge  the  prize 

Of  wit  or  arms,  while  both  contend 

To  win  her  grace  whom  all  commend. 

There  let  Hymen  oft  appear  125 

In  saffron  robe,  with  taper  clear. 

And  pomp,  and  feast,  and  revelry, 

With  mask  and  antique  pageantry ; 

Such  sights  as  youthful  poets  dream 

On  summer  eves  by  haunted  stream.  130 

Then  to  the  well-trod  stage  anon. 

If  Jonson's  learned  sock  be  on, 

Or  sweetest  Shakespeare,  Fancy's  child, 

Warble  his  native  wood-notes  wild. 

And  ever,  against  eating  cares,  135 

Lap  me  in  soft  Lydian  airs. 


l8o  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

Married  to  immortal  verse, 

Such  as  the  meeting  soul  may  pierce, 

In  notes  with  many  a  winding  bout 

Of  linked  sweetness  long  drawn  out  140 

With  wanton  heed  and  giddy  cunning, 

The  melting  voice  through  mazes  running, 

Untwisting  all  the  chains  that  tie 

The  hidden  soul  of  harmony ; 

That  Orpheus'  self  may  heave  his  head  145 

From  golden  slumber  on  a  bed 

Of  heaped  Elysian  flowers,  and  hear 

Such  strains  as  would  have  won  the  ear 

Of  Pluto  to  have  quite  set  free 

His  half-regained  Eurydice.  150 

These  delights  if  thou  canst  give. 

Mirth,  with  thee  I  mean  to  live. 


IL  PENSEROSO 

Hence,  vain  deluding  Joys, 

The  brood  of  Folly  without  father  bred  ! 
How  little  you  bested. 

Or  fill  the  fixed  mind  with  all  your  toys  ! 
Dwell  in  some  idle  brain. 

And  fancies  fond  with  gaudy  shapes  possess. 
As  thick  and  numberless 

As  the  gay  motes  that  people  the  sun-beams. 
Or  likest  hovering  dreams, 

The  fickle  pensioners  of  Morpheus'  train. 
But,  hail !  thou  Goddess  sage  and  holy  ! 
Hail,  divinest  Melancholy  ! 


MILTON  l8l 

Whose  saintly  visage  is  too  bright 

To  hit  the  sense  of  human  sight, 

And  therefore  to  our  weaker  view  15 

O'erlaid  with  black,  staid  Wisdom's  hue ; 

Black,  but  such  as  in  esteem 

Prince  Memnon's  sister  might  beseem. 

Or  that  starred  Ethiop  queen  that  strove 

To  set  her  beauty's  praise  above  2c 

The  Sea- Nymphs,  and  their  powers  offended 

Yet  thou  art  higher  far  descended  : 

Thee  bright-haired  Vesta  long  of  yore 

To  solitary  Saturn  bore  ; 

His  daughter  she;  in  Saturn's  reign  25 

Such  mixture  was  not  held  a  stain. 

Oft  in  glimmering  bowers  and  glades 

He  met  her,  and  in  secret  shades 

Of  woody  Ida's  inmost  grove. 

Whilst  yet  there  was  no  fear  of  Jove.  30 

Come,  pensive  Nun,  devout  and  pure, 

Sober,  steadfast,  and  demure. 

All  in  a  robe  of  darkest  grain, 

Flowing  with  majestic  train. 

And  sable  stole  of  cypress  lawn  35 

Over  thy  decent  shoulders  drawn. 

Come  ;  but  keep  thy  wonted  state, 

With  even  step,  and  musing  gait. 

And  looks  commercing  with  the  skies, 

Thy  rapt  soul  sitting  in  thine  eyes  :  40 

There,  held  in  holy  passion  still. 

Forget  thyself  to  marble,  till 

With  a  sad  leaden  downward  cast 

Thou  fix  them  on  the  earth  as  fast. 

And  join  with  thee  calm  Peace  and  Quiet,  45 


1 82  FROM   CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

Spare  Fast,  that  oft  with  gods  doth  diet. 

And  hears  the  Muses  in  a  ring 

Aye  round  about  Jove's  altar  sing; 

And  add  to  these  retired  Leisure, 

That  in  trim  gardens  takes  his  pleasure  ;  50 

But,  first  and  chiefest,  with  thee  bring 

Him  that  yon  soars  on  golden  wing, 

Guiding  the  fiery-wheeled  throne, 

The  Cherub  Contemplation ; 

And  the  mute  Silence  hist  along,  55 

'Less  Philomel  will  deign  a  song. 

In  her  sweetest  saddest  plight. 

Smoothing  the  rugged  brow  of  Night, 

While  Cynthia  checks  her  dragon  yoke 

Gently  o'er  the  accustomed  oak.  60 

Sweet  bird,  that  shunn'st  the  noise  of  folly. 

Most  musical,  most  melancholy  ! 

Thee,  chauntress,  oft  the  woods  among 

I  woo,  to  hear  thy  even-song  ; 

And,  missing  thee,  I  walk  unseen  65 

On  the  dry  smooth-shaven  green. 

To  behold  the  wandering  moon, 

Riding  near  her  highest  noon. 

Like  one  that  had  been  led  astray 

Through  the  heaven's  wide  pathless  way,  70 

And  oft,  as  if  her  head  she  bowed, 

Stooping  through  a  fleecy  cloud. 

Oft,  on  a  plat  of  rising  ground, 

1  hear  the  far-off  curfew  sound. 

Over  some  wide-watered  shore,  75 

Swinging  slow  with  sullen  roar ; 

Or,  if  the  air  will  not  permit, 

Some  still  removed  place  will  fit, 


MILTON  183 

Where  glowing  embers  through  the  room 

Teach  hght  to  counterfeit  a  gloom,  80 

Far  from  all  resort  of  mirth, 

Save  the  cricket  on  the  hearth. 

Or  the  bellman's  drowsy  charm 

To  bless  the  doors  from  nightly  harm. 

Or  let  my  lamp,  at  midnight  hour,  85 

Be  seen  in  some  high  lonely  tower. 

Where  I  may  oft  outwatch  the  bear, 

With  thrice  great  Hermes,  or  unsphere 

The  spirit  of  Plato,  to  unfold 

What  worlds  or  what  vast  regions  hold  90 

The  immortal  mind  that  hath  forsook 

Her  mansion  in  this  fleshy  nook  ; 

And  of  those  demons  that  are  found 

In  fire,  air,  flood,  or  underground, 

Whose  power  hath  a  true  consent  95 

With  planet  or  with  element. 

Sometime  let  gorgeous  Tragedy 

In  sceptred  pall  come  sweeping  by. 

Presenting  Thebes,  or  Pelops'  line. 

Or  the  tale  of  Troy  divine,  100 

Or  what  (though  rare)  of  later  age 

Ennobled  hath  the  buskined  stage. 

But,  O  sad  Virgin  !  that  thy  power 

Might  raise  Musaeus  from  his  bower ; 

Or  bid  the  soul  of  Orpheus  sing  105 

Such  notes  as,  warbled  to  the  string, 

Drew  iron  tears  down  Pluto's  cheek, 

And  made  Hell  grant  what  love  did  seek; 

Or  call  up  him  that  left  half-told 

The  story  of  Cambuscan  bold,  "o 

Of  Camball,  and  of  Algarsife, 


t84  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

And  who  had  Canace  to  wife, 

That  owned  the  virtuous  ring  and  glass, 

And  of  the  wondrous  horse  of  brass 

On  which  the  Tartar  king  did  ride  ;  115 

And  if  aught  else  great  bards  beside 

In  sage  and  solemn  tunes  have  sung. 

Of  turneys,  and  of  trophies  hung, 

Of  forests,  and  enchantments  drear. 

Where  more  is  meant  than  meets  the  ear.  120 

Thus,  Night,  oft  see  me  in  thy  pale  career, 

Till  civil-suited  Morn  appear. 

Not  tricked  and  frounced,  as  she  was  wont 

With  the  Attic  boy  to  hunt, 

But  kerchieft  in  a  comely  cloud,  125 

While  rocking  winds  are  piping  loud, 

Or  ushered  with  a  shower  still. 

When  the  gust  hath  blown  his  fill, 

Ending  on  the  rustling  leaves, 

With  minute-drops  from  off  the  eaves.  130 

And,  when  the  sun  begins  to  fling 

His  flaring  beams,  me.  Goddess,  bring 

To  arched  walks  of  twilight  groves, 

And  shadows  brown  that  Sylvan  loves, 

Of  pine,  or  monumental  oak,  135 

Where  the  rude  axe  with  heaved  stroke 

Was  never  heard  the  nymphs  to  daunt. 

Or  fright  them  from  their  hallowed  haunt. 

There,  in  close  covert,  by  some  brook, 

Where  no  profaner  eye  may  look,  140 

Hide  me  from  day's  garish  eye. 

While  the  bee  with  honeyed  thigh. 

That  at  her  flowery  work  doth  sing, 

And  the  waters  murmuring. 


MILTON  185 

With  such  consort  as  they  keep,  145 

Entice  the  dewy-feathered  Sleep. 

And  let  some  strange  mysterious  dream 

Wave  at  his  wings,  in  airy  stream 

Of  lively  portraiture  displayed, 

Softly  on  my  eyelids  laid ;  150 

And,  as  I  wake,  sweet  music  breathe 

Above,  about,  or  underneath. 

Sent  by  some  Spirit  to  mortals  good, 

Or  the  unseen  Genius  of  the  wood. 

But  let  my  due  feet  never  fail  155 

To  walk  the  studious  cloister's  pale. 

And  love  the  high  embowed  roof. 

With  antique  pillars  massy-proof. 

And  storied  windows  richly  dight. 

Casting  a  dim  religious  light.  160 

There  let  the  pealing  organ  blow. 

To  the  full-voiced  quire  below. 

In  service  high  and  anthems  clear. 

As  may  with  sweetness,  through  mine  ear, 

Dissolve  me  into  ecstacies,  165 

And  bring  all  heaven  before  mine  eyes. 

And  may  at  last  my  weary  age 

Find  out  the  peaceful  hermitage. 

The  hairy  gown  and  mossy  cell, 

Where  I  may  sit  and  rightly  spell  170 

Of  every  star  that  heaven  doth  shew, 

And  every  herb  that  sips  the  dew, 

Till  old  experience  do  attain 

To  something  like  prophetic  strain. 

These  pleasures.  Melancholy,  give  ;  175 

And  I  with  thee  will  choose  to  live. 


1 86  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

ON   HIS   BLINDNESS 

When  I  consider  how  my  light  is  spent 

Ere  half  my  days  in  this  dark  world  and  wide, 
And  that  one  talent  which  is  death  to  hide 
Lodged  with  me  useless,  though  my  soul  more  bent 

To  serve  therewith  my  maker,  and  present  5 

My  true  account,  lest  He  returning  chide, 
"  Doth  God  exact  day-labour,  light  denied?" 
I  fondly  ask.     But  Patience,  to  prevent 

That  murmur,  soon  replies,  "  God  doth  not  need 

Either  man's  work  or  his  own  gifts.     Who  best        10 
Bear  his  mild  yoke,  they  serve  him  best.     His  state 

Is  kingly  :  thousands  at  his  bidding  speed, 

And  post  o'er  land  and  ocean  without  rest ; 
They  also  serve  who  only  stand  and  wait." 


AREOPAGITICA 

Truth 

Truth  indeed  came  once  into  the  world  with  her 
Divine  Master,  and  was  a  perfect  shape  most  glorious 
to  look  on  :  but  when  he  ascended,  and  his  apostles  after 
him  were  laid  asleep,  then  straight  arose  a  wicked  race  of 
deceivers,  who,  as  that  story  goes  of  the  Egyptian  Typhon 
with  his  conspirators,  how  they  dealt  with  the  good  Osiris, 
took  the  virgin  Truth,  hewed  her  lovely  form  into  a  thou- 
sand pieces,  and  scattered  them  to  the  four  winds.  From 
that  time  ever  since,  the  sad  friends  of  Truth,  such  as 
durst  appear,  imitating  the  careful  search  that  Isis  made 
for  the  mangled  body  of  Osiris,  went  up  and  down  gath- 


MILTON  187 

ering  up  limb  by  limb  still  as  they  could  find  them.  We 
have  not  yet  found  them  all,  lords  and  commons,  nor  ever 
shall  do,  till  her  Master's  second  coming ;  he  shall  bring 
together  every  joint  and  member,  and  shall  mould  them  15 
into  an  immortal  feature  of  loveliness  and  perfection. 
Suffer  not  these  licensing  prohibitions  to  stand  at  every 
place  of  opportunity,  forbidding  and  disturbing  them  that 
continue  seeking,  that  continue  to  do  our  obsequies  to 
the  torn  body  of  our  martyred  saint.  20 

A  Nation  in  its  Strength 

Lords  and  Commons  of  England  !  consider  what  a 
nation  it  is  whereof  ye  are,  and  whereof  ye  are  the  gov- 
ernors —  a  nation  not  slow  and  dull,  but  of  quick,  ingen- 
ious, and  piercing  spirit ;  acute  to  invent,  subtile  and 
sinewy  to  discourse,  not  beneath  the  reach  of  any  point  5 
the  highest  that  human  capacity  can  soar  to.  Therefore 
the  studies  of  learning  in  her  deepest  sciences  have  been 
so  ancient  and  so  eminent  among  us  that  writers  of  good 
antiquity  and  able  judgment  have  been  persuaded  that 
even  the  school  of  Pythagoras  and  the  Persian  wisdom  10 
took  beginning  from  the  old  philosophy  of  this  island. 
And  that  wise  and  civil  Roman,  Julius  Agricola,  who 
governed  once  here  for  Caesar,  preferred  the  natural  wits 
of  Britain  before  the  labored  studies  of  the  French. 

Behold  now  this  vast  city  —  a  city  of  refuge,  the  man-  15 
sion-house  of  Liberty  —  encompassed  and  surrounded 
with  his  protection;  the  shop  of  war  hath  not  there 
more  anvils  and  hammers  working,  to  fashion  out  the 
plates  and  instruments  of  armed  Justice  in  defence  of 
beleaguered  Truth,  than  there  be  pens  and  heads  there,  20 
sitting  by  their  studious  lamps,  musing,  searching,  revolv- 


1 88  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

ing  new  notions  and  ideas  wherewith  to  present,  as  with 
their  homage  and  their  fealty,  the  approaching  reforma- 
tion: others  as  fast  reading,  trying  all  things,  assenting  to 
the  force  of  reason  and  convincement.  25 

What  could  a  man  require  more  from  a  nation  so 
pliant  and  so  prone  to  seek  after  knowledge?  What 
wants  there  to  such  a  towardly  and  pregnant  soil  but 
wise  and  faithful  laborers  to  make  a  knowing  people, 
a  nation  of  prophets,  of  sages,  and  of  worthies?  We  30 
reckon  more  than  five  months  yet  to  harvest ;  there 
need  not  be  five  weeks,  had  we  but  eyes  to  lift  up : 
the  fields  are  white  already.  Where  there  is  much 
desire  to  learn,  there  of  necessity  will  be  much  argu- 
ing, much  writing,  many  opinions ;  for  opinion  in  good  35 
men  is  but  knowledge  in  the  making.  Under  these  fan- 
tastic terrors  of  sect  and  schism,  we  vvrong  the  earnest 
and  zealous  thirst  after  knowledge  and  understanding 
which  God  hath  stirred  up  in  this  city.  What  some 
lament  of,  we  rather  should  rejoice  at,  should  rather  40 
praise  this  pious  forwardness  among  men  to  re-assume 
the  ill-deputed  care  of  their  religion  into  their  own  hands 
again.  This  is  a  Hvely  and  cheerful  presage  of  our  happy 
success  and  victory.  For  as  in  a  body  when  the  blood  is 
fresh,  the  spirits  pure  and  vigorous,  not  only  to  vital,  but  to  45 
rational  faculties,  and  those  in  the  acutest  and  the  pert- 
est  operations  of  wit  and  subtlety,  it  argues  in  what  good 
plight  and  constitution  the  body  is ;  so  when  the  cheer- 
fulness of  the  people  is  so  sprightly  up  as  that  if  has  not 
only  wherewith  to  guard  well  its  own  freedom  and  safety,  50 
but  to  spare,  and  to  bestow  upon  the  solidest  and  sublim- 
est  points  of  controversy  and  new  invention,  it  betokens 
us  not  degenerated,  nor  drooping  to  a  fatal  decay,  by 
casting  off  the  old  and  wrinkled  skin  of  corruption  to  out- 


MILTON  189 

live  these  pangs,  and  wax  young  again,  entering  the  glo-  55 
rious  ways  of  truth  and  prosperous  virtue,  destined  to 
become  great  and  honorable  in  these  latter  ages. 

Methinks  I  see  in  my  mind  a  noble  and  puissant  nation 
rousing  herself  like  a  strong  man  after  sleep,  and  shak- 
ing her  invincible  locks ;  methinks  I  see  her  as  an  eagle  60 
mewing  her  mighty  youth,  and  kindling  her  undazzled 
eyes  at  the  full  midday  beam,  purging  and  unsealing  her 
long-abused  sight  at  the  fountain  itself  of  heavenly  radi- 
ance ;  while  the  whole  noise  of  timorous  and  flocking 
birds,  with  those  also  that  love  the  twilight,  flutter  about,  65 
amazed  at  what  she  means,  and  in  their  envious  gabble 
would  prognosticate  a  year  of  sects  and  schisms. 


AN  APOLOGY   FOR   SMECTYMNUUS 
Early  Impressions 

If  my  name  and  outward  demeanor  be  not  evident 
enough  to  defend  me,  I  must  make  trial  if  the  discovery 
of  my  inmost  thoughts  can  :  wherein  of  two  purposes, 
both  honest  and  both  sincere,  the  one  perhaps  I  shall  not 
miss ;  although  I  fail  to  gain  belief  wath  others,  of  being  5 
such  as  my  perpetual  thoughts  shall  here  disclose  me, 
I  may  yet  fail  of  success  in  persuading  some  to  be  such 
really  themselves,  as  they  cannot  believe  me  to  be  more 
than  what  I  feign. 

I  had  my  time,  readers,  as  others  have,  who  have  good  10 
learning  bestowed  upon  them,  to  be  sent  to  those  places 
where,  the  opinion  was,  it  might  be  soonest  attained ; 
and  as  the  manner  is,  was  not  unstudied  in  those  authors 
which  are  most  commended,  whereof  some  were  great 


IQO  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

orators  and  historians,  whose  matter  methought  I  loved  15 
indeed,  but  as  my  age  then  was,  so  I  understood  them  ; 
others  were  the  smooth  elegiac  poets,  whereof  the  schools 
are  not  scarce,  whom  both  for  the  pleasing  sound  of  their 
numerous  writing,  which  in  imitation  I  found  most  easy 
and  most  agreeable  to  nature's  part  in  me,  and  for  their  20 
matter,  which  what  it  is  there  be  few  who  know  not,  I 
was  so  allured  to  read  that  no  recreation  came  to  me 
better  welcome.  For  that  it  was  then  those  years  with 
me  which  are  excused,  though  they  be  least  severe,  I  may 
be  saved  the  labour  to  remember  ye.  Whence  having  ob-  25 
served  them  to  account  it  the  chief  glory  of  their  wit,  in 
that  they  were  ablest  to  judge,  to  praise,  and  by  that 
could  esteem  themselves  worthiest  to  love  those  high 
perfections  which  under  one  or  other  name  they  took  to 
celebrate ;  I  thought  with  myself  by  every  instinct  and  30 
presage  of  nature,  which  is  not  wont  to  be  false,  that  what 
emboldened  them  to  this  task  might  with  such  diligence 
as  they  used  embolden  me  ;  and  that  what  judgment,  wit, 
or  elegance  was  my  share,  would  herein  best  appear,  and 
best  value  itself,  by  how  much  more  wisely  and  with  more  35 
love  of  virtue  I  should  choose  (let  rude  ears  be  absent) 
the  object  of  not  unlike  praises.  For  albeit  these  thoughts 
to  some  will  seem  virtuous  and  commendable,  to  others 
only  pardonable,  to  a  third  soul  perhaps  idle ;  yet  the 
mentioning  of  them  now  will  end  in  serious.  40 

Nor  blame  it,  readers,  in  those  years  to  propose  to 
themselves  such  a  reward  as  the  noblest  dispositions 
above  other  things  in  this  life  have  sometimes  preferred  ; 
whereof  not  to  be  sensible  when  good  and  fair  in  one 
person  meet,  argues  both  a  gross  and  shallow  judgment  45 
and  withal  an  ungentle  and  swainish  breast.  For  by  the 
firm  settling  of  these  persuasions  I  became,  to  my  best 


MILTON  191 

memory,  so  much  a  proficient  that  if  I  found  those 
authors  anywhere  speaking  unworthy  things  of  themselves, 
or  unchaste  of  those  names  which  before  they  had  ex-  50 
tolled,  this  effect  it  wrought  with  me ;  from  that  time 
forward  their  art  I  still  applauded,  but  the  men  I  de- 
plored ;  and  above  them  all  preferred  the  two  famous 
renowners  of  Beatrice  and  Laura,  who  never  write  but 
honour  of  them  to  whom  they  devote  their  verse,  display-  55 
ing  sublime  and  pure  thoughts,  without  transgression. 
And  long  it  was  not  after,  when  I  was  confirmed  in  this 
opinion,  that  he  who  would  not  be  frustrate  of  his  hope 
to  write  well  hereafter  in  laudable  things  ought  himself  to 
be  a  true  poem ;  that  is,  a  composition  and  pattern  of  60 
the  best  and  honourablest  things ;  not  presuming  to  sing 
high  praises  of  heroic  men,  or  famous  cities,  unless  he 
have  in  himself  the  experience  and  the  practice  of  all  that 
which  is  praiseworthy.  These  reasonings,  together  with 
a  certain  niceness  of  nature,  and  honest  haughtiness,  and  65 
self-esteem  either  of  what  I  was,  or  what  I  might  be 
(which  let  envy  call  pride),  and  lastly  that  modesty, 
whereof,  though  not  in  the  title  page,  yet  here  I  may  be 
excused  to  make  some  beseeming  profession ;  all  these 
uniting  the  supply  of  their  natural  aid  together,  kept  me  70 
still  above  those  low  descents  of  mind  beneath  which  he 
must  deject  and  plunge  himself  that  can  agree  to  saleable 
and  unlawful  prostitutions. 

Next  (for  hear  me  out  now,  readers),  that  I  may  tell 
ye  whither  my  younger  feet  wandered ;  I  betook  me  75 
among  those  lofty  fables  and  romances  which  recount 
in  solemn  cantos  the  deeds  of  knighthood  founded  by 
our  victorious  kings  and  from  hence  had  in  renown  over 
all  Christendom.  There  I  read  it  in  the  oath  of  every 
knight,  that  he  should  defend  to  the  expense  of  his  best  80 


192  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

blood,  or  of  his  life,  if  it  so  befell  him,  the  honour  and 
chastity  of  virgin  or  matron ;  from  whence  even  then  I 
learned  what  a  noble  virtue  chastity  sure  must  be,  to  the 
defence  of  which  so  many  worthies,  by  such  a  dear  ad- 
venture of  themselves,  had  sworn.     And  if  I  found  in  85 
the  story  afterward  any  of  them,  by  word  or  deed,  break- 
ing that  oath,  I  judged  it  the  same  fault  of  the  poet  as    ' 
that  which  is  attributed  to  Homer,  to  have  written  inde- 
cent things  of  the  gods.     Only  this  my  mind  gave  me, 
that  every  free  and  gentle  spirit,  without  that  oath,  ought  90 
to  be  bom  a  knight,  nor  needed  to  expect  the  gilt  spur 
or  the  laying  of  a  sword  upon  his  shoulder  to  stir  him 
up,  by  his  counsel  and  his  arms  to  secure  and  protect 
the  weakness  of  any  attempted  chastity. 


SAMUEL    BUTLER 

(i6ia-i68o) 

HUDIBRAS 
Accomplishments  of  Hudibras 

When  civil  dudgeon  first  grew  high, 
And  men  fell  out  they  knew  not  why ; 
When  hard  words,  jealousies,  and  fears, 
Set  folks  together  by  the  ears ;  .  .  . 
When  gospel-trumpeter,  surrounded  5 

With  long-eared  rout,  to  battle  sounded  ; 
And  pulpit,  drum  ecclesiastic. 
Was  beat  with  fist  instead  of  a  stick ; 
Then  did  Sir  Knight  abandon  dwelling. 
And  out  he  rode  a-colonelling.  10 

A  wight  he  was,  whose  very  sight  would 
Entitle  him  mirror  of  knighthood, 
That  never  bowed  his  stubborn  knee 
To  anything  but  chivalry, 

Nor  put  up  blow  but  that  which  laid  15 

Right  worshipful  on  shoulder-blade. 

We  grant,  although  he  had  much  wit, 

H'  was  very  shy  of  using  it. 

As  being  loath  to  wear  it  out. 

And  therefore  bore  it  not  about,  20 

o  193 


194  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

Unless  on  holidays  or  so, 

As  men  their  best  apparel  do. 

Besides,  'tis  known  he  could  s;jeak  Greek 

As  naturally  as  pigs  squeak  ; 

That  Latin  was  no  more  difficile  25 

Than  to  a  blackbird  'tis  to  whistle 

Being  rich  in  both,  he  never  scanted 

His  bounty  unto  such  as  wanted ; 

But  much  of  either  would  afford 

To  many  that  had  not  one  word.  30 


He  was  in  logic  a  great  critic. 

Profoundly  skilled  in  analytic. 

He  could  distinguish  and  divide 

A  hair  'twixt  south  and  south-west  side ; 

On  either  which  he  would  dispute,  35 

Confute,  change  hands,  and  still  confute. 

He'd  undertake  to  prove  by  force 

Of  argument  a  man's  no  horse  ; 

He'd  prove  a  buzzard  is  no  fowl. 

And  that  a  lord  may  be  an  owl ;  40 

A  calf  an  alderman,  a  goose  a  justice. 

And  rooks  committee-men  and  trustees. 

He'd  run  in  debt  by  disputation. 

And  pay  with  ratiocination. 

All  this  by  syllogism,  true  45 

In  mood  and  figure,  he  would  do. 

For  rhetoric,  he  could  not  ope 

His  mouth  but  out  there  flew  a  trope  ; 

And  when  he  happened  to  brake  off 

r  th'  middle  of  his  speech,  or  cough,  50 

H'  had  hard  words  ready  to  show  why. 


BUTLER 


195 


And  tell  what  rules  he  did  it  by ; 

Else,  when  with  greatest  art  he  spoke, 

You'd  think  he  talked  like  other  folk ; 

For  all  a  rhetorician's  rules  55 

Teach  nothing  but  to  name  his  tools. 

But  when  he  pleased  to  show  't,  his  speech 

In  loftiness  of  sound  was  rich  — 

A  Babylonish  dialect 

Which  learned  pedants  much  affect :  60 

It  was  a  parti-colored  dress 

Of  patched  and  piebald  languages  : 

'Twas  English  cut  on  Greek  and  Latin, 

Like  fustian  heretofore  on  satin. 

It  had  an  odd  promiscuous  tone,  65 

As  if  h'  had  talked  three  parts  in  one  ; 

Which  made  some  think  when  he  did  gabble 

H'  had  heard  three  laborers  of  Babel, 

Or  Cerberus  himself  pronounce 

A  leash  of  languages  at  once.  70 

This  he  as  volubly  would  vent 

As  if  his  stock  would  ne'er  be  spent ; 

And  truly  to  support  that  charge, 

He  had  supplies  as  vast  and  large  ; 

For  he  could  coin  or  counterfeit  75 

New  words,  with  Httle  or  no  wit  — 

Words  so  debased  and  hard,  no  stone 

Was  hard  enough  to  touch  them  on  ; 

And  when  with  hasty  noise  he  spoke  'em. 

The  ignorant  for  current  took  'em,  80 

That  had  the  orator  who  once 

Did  fill  his  mouth  with  pebble-stones 

When  he  harangued  but  known  his  phrase. 

He  would  have  used  no  other  ways. 


igS  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

In  mathematics  he  was  greater  85 

Than  Tycho  Brahe  or  Erra  Pater ; 

For  he,  by  geometric  scale, 

Could  take  the  size  of  pots  of  ale ; 

Resolve  by  sines  and  tangents,  straight, 

If  bread  or  butter  wanted  weight ;  90 

And  wisely  tell  what  hour  o'  th'  day 

The  clock  does  strike,  by  algebra. 

Besides  he  was  a  shrewd  philosopher 

And  had  read  every  text  and  gloss  over  — 

Whate'er  the  crabbed'st  author  hath  95 

He  understood  b'  implicit  faith  ; 

Whatever  sceptic  could  inquire  for, 

For  every  why  he  had  a  whetefore ; 

Knew  more  than  forty  of  them  do. 

As  far  as  words  and  terms  could  go ;  loo 

All  which  he  understood  by  rote, 

And  as  occasion  served  would  quote  : 

No  matter  whether  right  or  wrong, 

They  might  be  either  said  or  sung. 

His  notions  fitted  things  so  well  105 

That  which  was  which  he  could  not  tell, 

But  oftentimes  mistook  the  one 

For  th'  other,  as  great  clerks  have  done. 

He  could  reduce  all  things  to  acts. 

And  knew  their  natures  by  abstracts ;  no 

Where  entity  and  quiddity, 

The  ghosts  of  defunct  bodies  fly ; 

Where  truth  in  person  does  appear. 

Like  words  congealed  in  northern  air. 

He  knew  what's  what,  and  that's  as  high  115 

As  metaphysic  wit  can  fly. 

In  school  divinity  as  able 


BUTLER  197 

As  he  that  hight  irrefragable  \ 

A  second  Thomas,  or,  at  once 

To  name  them  all,  another  Dunce ;  mq 

Profound  in  all  the  nominal 

And  real  ways  beyond  them  all ; 

For  he  a  rope  of  sand  could  twist 

As  tough  as  learned  Sorbonist, 

And  weave  fine  cobwebs  fit  for  skull  125 

That's  empty  when  the  moon  is  full  — 

Such  as  take  lodgings  in  a  head 

That's  to  be  let  unfurnished. 

Religion  of  Hudibras 

For  his  religion,  it  was  fit 

To  match  his  learning  and  his  wit : 

'Twas  Presbyterian  true  blue  ; 

For  he  was  of  that  stubborn  crew 

Of  errant  saints,  whom  all  men  grant  5 

To  be  the  true  church  mihtant  — 

Such  as  do  build  their  faith  upon 

The  holy  text  of  pike  and  gun ; 

Decide  all  controversies  by 

Infallible  artillery ;  10 

And  prove  their  doctrine  orthodox 

By  apostoUc  blows  and  knocks ; 

Call  fire  and  sword  and  desolation 

A  godly  thorough  reformation, 

Which  always  must  be  carried  on,  15 

And  still  be  doing,  never  done ; 

As  if  religion  were  intended 

For  nothing  else  but  to  be  mended  — 

A  sect  whose  chief  devotion  Ues 


198  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

In  odd  perverse  antipathies ;  30 

In  falling  out  with  that  or  this, 

And  finding  somewhat  still  amiss ; 

More  peevish,  cross,  and  splenetic 

Than  dog  distract  or  monkey  sick ; 

That  with  more  care  keep  holiday  25 

The  wrong,  than  others  the  right,  way ; 

Compound  for  sins  they  are  inclined  to 

By  damning  those  they  have  no  mind  to. 

Still  so  perverse  and  opposite. 

As  if  they  worshipped  God  for  spite ;  30 

The  self-same  thing  they  will  abhor 

One  way,  and  long  another  for : 

Free-will  they  one  way  disavow, 

Another  nothing  else  allow ; 

All  piety  consists  therein  35 

In  them,  in  other  men  all  sin ; 

Rather  than  fail,  they  will  defy 

That  which  they  love  most  tenderly ; 

Quarrel  with  minced  pies,  and  disparage 

Their  best  and  dearest  friend  —  plum  porridge ;  40 

Fat  pig  and  goose  itself  oppose, 

And  blaspheme  custard  through  the  nose. 

Th'  apostles  of  this  fierce  religion, 

Like  Mahomet's,  were  ass  and  widgeon, 

To  whom  our  knight,  by  fast  instinct  45 

Of  wit  and  temper,  was  so  linked, 

As  if  hypocrisy  and  nonsense 

Had  got  th'  advowson  of  his  conscience. 


JOHN    BUNYAN 

(1638-1688) 

PILGRIM'S   PROGRESS 
Tlie  Golden  City 

Now  I  saw  in  my  dream  that  by  this  time  the  pilgrims 
were  got  over  the  Enchanted  Ground;  and,  entering 
into  the  country  of  Beulah,  whose  air  was  very  sweet 
and  pleasant,  the  way  lying  directly  through  it,  they 
solaced  themselves  there  for  a  season.  Yea,  here  they  5 
heard  continually  the  singing  of  birds,  and  saw  every 
day  the  flowers  appear  in  the  earth,  and  heard  the  voice 
of  the  turtle  in  the  land.  In  this  country  the  sun  shin- 
eth  night  and  day :  wherefore  it  was  beyond  the  Valley 
of  the  Shadow  of  Death,  and  also  out  of  the  reach  of  the  10 
Giant  Despair;  neither  could  they  from  this  place  so 
much  as  see  Doubting  Castle. 

Here  they  were  within  sight  of  the  city  they  were  going 
to;  also,  here  met  them  some  of  the  inhabitants  thereof; 
for  in  this  land  the  shining  ones  commonly  walked,  be-  15 
cause  it  was  upon  the  borders  of  Heaven.  In  this  land, 
also,  the  contract  between  the  bride  and  bridegroom  was 
renewed.  Yea,  here  as  the  bridegroom  rejoiceth  over 
the  bride,  so  did  their  God  rejoice  over  them.  Here 
they  had  no  want  of  corn  and  wine;  for  in  this  place  they  20 
met  abundance  of  what  they  had  sought  for  in  all  their 
pilgrimage.     Here  they  heard  voices  from  out  of  the 

199 


200  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

city,  loud  voices,  saying,   "Say  ye  to  the  daughter  of 
Zion,    Behold,   thy  salvation  cometh!     Behold,  his  re- 
ward is  with  him!"     Here  all  the  inhabitants  of  the  25 
country  called  them  "  the  holy  people,  the  redeemed  of 
the  Lord,  sought  out,"  etc. 

Now,  as  they  walked  in  this  land,  they  had  more  re- 
joicing than  in  parts  more  remote  from  the  kingdom  to 
which  they  were  bound.  And  drawing  nearer  to  the  city  30 
yet,  they  had  a  more  perfect  view  thereof.  It  was  built 
of  pearls  and  precious  stones;  also  the  streets  thereof 
were  paved  with  gold;  so  that  by  reason  of  the  natural 
glory  of  the  city,  and  the  reflection  of  the  sunbeams 
upon  it,  Christian  with  desire  fell  sick.  Hopeful,  also,  35 
had  a  fit  or  two  of  the  same  disease;  wherefore  here 
they  lay  by  it  awhile,  crying  out  because  of  their  pangs, 
"  If  you  see  my  Beloved,  tell  him  that  I  am  sick  of  love." 

But  being  a  little  strengthened,  and  better  able  to  bear 
their  sickness,  they  walked  on  their  way,  and  came  yet  40 
nearer  and  nearer,  where  were  orchards,  vineyards,  and 
gardens,  and  their  gates  opened  into  the  highway.     Now, 
as  they  came  up  to  these  places,  behold  theT  gardener 
stood  in  the  way,  to  whom  the  pigrims  said,   "Whose 
goodly  vineyards  and  gardens  are    these?"     He   an-  45 
swered,  "They  are  the  King's,  and  are  planted  here  for 
his  own  delight,  and  also  for  the  solace  of  pilgrims." 
So  the  gardener  had  them  into  the  vineyards,  and  had 
them   refresh  themselves  with  the  dainties.     He  also 
showed  them  there  the  King's  walks  and  arbors,  where  50 
he  delighted  to  be.     And  here  they  tarried  and  slept. 

Now  I  beheld  in  my  dream  that  they  talked  more  in 
their  sleep  at  this  time  than  they  ever  did  in  all  their 
journey;  and  being  in  a  muse  thereabout,  the  gardener 
said  even  to  me,  "Wherefore  musest  thou  at  the  matter?  55 


BUN  VAN  20 1 

It  is  the  nature  of  the  fruit  of  the  grapes  of  these  vine- 
yards to  go  down  so  sweetly  as  to  cause  the  lips  of  them 
that  are  asleep  to  speak." 

So  I  saw  that  when  they  awoke  they  addressed  them- 
selves to  go  up  to  the  city.  But,  as  I  said,  the  reflection  60 
of  the  sun  upon  the  city  —  for  the  city  was  pure  gold  — 
was  so  extremely  glorious  that  they  could  not  as  yet  with 
open  face  behold  it,  but  through  an  instrument  made  for 
that  purpose.  So  I  saw  that,  as  they  went  on,  there  met 
them  two  men  in  raiment  that  shone  like  gold;  also  65 
their  faces  shone  as  the  light. 

These  men  asked  the  pilgrims  whence  they  came?  and 
they  told  them.  They  also  asked  them  where  they  had 
lodged,  what  dangers  and  difficulties,  what  comforts  and 
pleasures,  they  had  met  with  in  the  way  ?  and  they  told  70 
them.  Then  said  the  men  that  had  met  them,  "You 
have  but  two  difficulties  more  to  meet  with,  and  then 
you  are  in  the  city." 

Christian,  then,  and  his  companion  asked  the  men  to 
go  along  with  them;  so  they  told  them  that  they  would.   75 
"But,"  said- they,    "you  must  obtain  it  by  your  own 
faith."     So  I  saw  in  my  dream  that  they  went  on  together 
till  they  came  in  sight  of  the  gate. 

Now  I  further  saw  that  betwixt  them  and  the  gate  was 
a  river,  but  there  was  no  bridge  to  go  over,  and  the  river  80 
was  very  deep.  At  the  sight,  therefore,  of  this  river  the 
pilgrims  were  much  stunned;  but  the  men  that  went  with 
them  said,  "  You  must  go  through,  or  you  cannot  come 
at  the  gate." 

The  pilgrims  then  began  to  inquire  if  there  was  no  85 
other  way  to  the  gate?     To  which  they  answered,  "Yes; 
but  there  hath  not  any,  save  two,  to  wit,  Enoch  and  Eli- 
jah, been  permitted  to  tread  that  path  since  the  founda- 


202  FHOM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

tion  of  the  world,  nor  shall,  until  the  last  trumpet  shall 
sound.  Then  the  pilgrims  —  especially  Christian —  9<i 
began  to  despond  in  their  minds,  and  looked  this  way 
and  that;  but  no  way  could  be  found  by  them  by  which 
they  could  escape  the  river.  Then  they  asked  the  men 
if  the  waters  were  all  of  a  depth?  They  said,  "No"; 
yet  they  could  not  help  them  in  that  case:  "for,"  said  95 
they,  "you  shall  find  it  deeper  or  shallower,  as  you  be- 
lieve in  the  King  of  the  place." 

They  then  addressed  themselves  to  the  water,  and  en- 
tering. Christian  began  to  sink,  and,  crying  out  to  his 
good  friend  Hopeful,  he  said,  "  I  sink  in  deep  waters,  100 
the  billows  go  over  my  head,  all  the  waters  go  over  me; 
Selah."     Then  said  the  other,  "Be  of  good  cheer,  my 
brother;  I  feel  the  bottom,  and  it  is  good."     Then  said 
Christian,  "  Ah !  my  friend,  the  sorrows  of  death  have 
compassed  me  about.     I  shall  not  see  the  land  that  flows  105 
with  milk  and  honey."     And  with  that  a  great  darkness 
and  horror  fell  upon  Christian,  so  that  he  could  not  see 
before   him.      Also   he,    in  a  great   measure,    lost  his 
senses,  so  that  he  could  neither  remember  nor  orderly 
talk  of  any  of  those  sweet  refreshments  that  he  had  met  no 
with  in  the  way  of  his  pilgrimage.     But  all  the  words 
that  he  spake  still  tended  to  discover  that  he  had  horror 
of  mind  and  heart-fears  that  he  should  die  in  that  river 
and  never  obtain  entrance  in  at  the  gate.     Here,  also, 
as  they  that  stood  by  perceived,  he  was  much  in  the  115 
troublesome  thoughts  of  the  sins  that  he  had  committed, 
both  since  and  before  he  began  as  a  pilgrim.    It  was  also 
perceived  that  he  was  troubled  with  apparitions  of  hob- 
goblins and  evil  spirits;  for  ever  and  anon  he  would  in- 
timate so  much   by  words.      Hopeful,   therefore,   had  120 
much  ado  to  keep  his  brother's  head  above  water.     Yea, 


BUN  VAN  203 

he  would  sometimes  be  quite  gone  down,  and  then,  ere 
a  while,  he  would  rise  up  again  half  dead.  Hopeful  did 
also  endeavor  to  comfort  him,  saying,  "Brother,  I  see 
the  gate,  and  men  standing  by  to  receive  us."  But  Chris- 125 
tian  would  answer,  "  It  is  you,  it  is  you  that  they  wait 
for.  You  have  been  hopeful  ever  since  I  knew  you." 
"And  so  have  you,"  he  said  to  Christian.  "Ah, 
brother,"  said  he,  "surely,  if  I  was  right,  He  would  now 
rise  to  help  me;  but  for  my  sins  He  hath  brought  me  130 
into  the  snare  and  left  me."  Then  said  Hopeful,  "My 
brother,  you  have  quite  forgot  the  text,  where  it  is  said 
of  the  wicked,  'There  are  no  bands  in  their  death,  but 
their  strength  is  firm;  they  are  not  troubled  as  other 
men,  neither  are  they  plagued  like  other  men.'  These  135 
troubles  and  distresses  that  you  go  through  in  these 
waters  are  no  sign  that  God  hath  forsaken  you,  but  are 
sent  to  try  you  whether  you  will  call  to  mind  that  which 
heretofore  you  have  received  of  his  goodness  and  live 
upon  him  in  your  distresses."  140 

Then  I  saw  in  my  dream  that  Christian  was  in  a  muse 
a  while.  To  whom,  also.  Hopeful  added  these  words : 
-"Be  of  good  cheer;  Jesus  Christ  maketh  thee  whole," 
And  with  that  Christian  brake  out  with  a  loud  voice, 
"Oh!  I  see  him  again,  and  he  tells  me,  'When  thou  145 
passest  through  the  waters,  I  will  be  with  thee,  and 
through  the  rivers  they  shall  not  overflow  thee.'  "  Then 
they  both  took  courage,  and  the  enemy  was  after  that  as 
still  as  a  stone,  until  they  were  gone  over.  Christian, 
therefore,  presently  found  ground  to  stand  upon,  and  so  150 
it  followed  that  the  rest  of  the  river  was  but  shallow. 
Thus  they  got  over. 

Now,  upon  the  bank  of  the  river,  on  the  other  side, 
they  saw  the  two  Shining  Men  again,  who  there  waited 


204  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

for  them.     Wherefore,  being  come  out  of  the  river,  they  155 
saluted  them,  saying,  "We  are  ministering  spirits,  sent 
forth  to  minister  to  those  that  shall  be  heirs  of  salva- 
tion."    Thus  they  went  along  towards  the  gate. 

Now  you  must  note  that  the  city  stood  upon  a  mighty 
hill;  but  the  pilgrims  went  up  that  hill  with  ease,  be- 160 
cause  they  had  these  two  men  to  lead  them  up  by  the 
arms.  They  had  likewise  left  their  mortal  garments 
behind  them  in  the  river;  for  though  they  went  in  with 
them,  they  came  out  without  them.  They  therefore 
went  up  here  with  much  agility  and  speed,  though  the  165 
foundation  upon  which  the  city  was  framed  was  higher 
than  the  clouds.  They  therefore  went  up  through  the 
region  of  the  air,  sweetly  talking  as  they  went,  being 
comforted  because  they  safely  got  over  the  river  and 
had  such  glorious  companions  to  attend  them.  170 

The  talk  that  they  had  with  the  Shining  Ones  was 
about  the  glory  of  the  place,  who  told  them  that  the 
beauty  and  glory  of  it  was  inexpressible.  "There,"  said 
they,  "  is  Mount  Sion,  the  heavenly  Jerusalem,  the  innu- 
merable company  of  angels,  and  the  spirits  of  just  men  175 
made  perfect.  You  are  going  now,"  said  they,  "to  the 
paradise  of  God,  wherein  you  shall  see  the  tree  of  life, 
and  eat  of  the  never-fading  fruits  thereof;  and  when 
you  come  there,  you  shall  have  white  robes  given  you, 
and  your  walk  and  talk  shall  be  everyday  with  the  King,  180 
even  all  the  days  of  eternity.  There  you  shall  not  see 
again  such  things  as  you  saw  when  you  were  in  the  lower 
region  upon  the  earth  —  to  wit,  sorrow,  sickness,  afflic- 
tion, and  death;  for  the  former  things  are  passed  away. 
You  are  now  going  to  Abraham,  to  Isaac,  and  to  Jacob,  185 
and  to  the  prophets,  men  that  God  hath  taken  away 
from  the  evil  to  come,  and  that  are  now  'resting  upon 


BUNYAN  205 

their  beds,  each  one  walking  in  his  uprightness.'  "     The 
men  then  asked,  "What  must  we  do  in  the  holy  place?" 
To  whom  it  was  answered,  "You  must  there  receive  the  190 
comforts  of  all  your  toil,  and  have  joy  for  all  your  sor- 
row; you  must  reap  what  you  have  sown,  even  the  fniit 
of  all  your  prayers,  and  tears,  and  sufferings  for  the  King 
by  the  way.     In  that  place  you  must  wear  crowns  of  gold, 
and  enjoy  the  perpetual  sight  and  vision  of  the  Holy  195 
One;  for  there  you  shall  see  him  as  he  is.     There  also 
you  shall  serve  him  continually  with  praise,  with  shout- 
ing and  thanksgiving,  whom  you  desired  to  serve  in  the 
world,  though  with  much  difficulty,  because  o{  the  in- 
firmity of  your  flesh.     There  your  eyes  shall  be  delighted  200 
with  seeing,  and  your  ears  with  hearing  the  pleasant 
voice  of  the  Mighty  One.     There  you  shall  enjoy  your 
friends  again  that  are  gone  thither  before  you;  and  there 
you  shall  with  joy  receive  even  every  one  that  followeth 
into  the  holy  place  after  you.     There  also  you  shall  be  205 
clothed  with  glory  and  majesty,  and  put  into  an  equipage 
fit  to  ride  out  with  the  King  of  Glory.     When  he  shall 
come  with  sound  of  trumpet  in  the  clouds,  as  upon  the 
wings  of  the  wind,  you  shall  come  with  him;  and  when 
he  shall  sit  upon  the  throne  of  judgment,  you  shall  sit  210 
by  him;  yea,  and  when  he  shall  pass  sentence  upon  all 
the  workers  of  iniquity,  let  them  be  angels  or  men,  you 
also  shall  have  a  voice  in  that  judgment,  because  they 
were  his  and  your  enemies.     Also,  when  he  shall  again 
return  to  the  city,  you  shall  go,  too,  with  sound  of  trum-  215 
pet,  and  be  ever  with  him." 

Now,  while  they  were  thus  drawing  towards  the  gate, 
behold,  a  company  of  the  heavenly  host  came  out  to 
meet  them;  to  whom  it  was  said  by  the  other  two  Shin- 
ing Ones,  "  These  are  the  men  that  have  loved  our  Lord  220 


206  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

when  they  were  in  the  world,  and  that  have  left  all  for 
his  holy  name;  and  he  hath  sent  us  to  fetch  them,  and 
we  have  brought  them  thus  far  on  their  desired  journey 
that  they  may  go  in,  and  look  their  Redeemer  in  the 
face  with  joy."  Then  the  heavenly  host  gave  a  great 225 
shout,  saying,  "  Blessed  are  they  that  are  called  to  the 
marriage  supper  of  the  Lamb."  There  came  out  also, 
at  this  time,  to  meet  them  several  of  the  King's  trum- 
peters, clothed  in  white  and  shining  raiment,  who,  with 
melodious  noises  and  loud,  made  even  the  heavens  10230 
echo  with  their  sound.  These  trumpeters  saluted  Chris- 
tian and  his  fellow  with  ten  thousand  welcomes  from  the 
world ;  and  this  they  did  with  shouting  and  sound  of 
trumpet. 

This  done,  they  compassed  them  round  on  every  side.  235 
Some  went  before,  some  behind,  and  some  on  the  right 
hand,   some   on   the  left  (as  it  were,    to  guard   them 
through  the  upper  regions),  continually  sounding  as  they 
went,  with  melodious  noise,  in  notes  on  high :  so  that 
the  very  sight  was  to  them  that  could  behold  it  as  if  240 
heaven   itself  was  come  down  to  meet   them.     Thus, 
therefore,  they  walked  on  together;  and,  as  they  walked, 
ever  and  anon  these  trumpeters,  even  with  joyful  sound, 
would,  by  mixing  their  music  with  looks  and  gestures, 
still  signify  to  Christian  and  his  brother  how  welcome  245 
they  were  into  their  company,  and  with  what  gladness 
they  came  to  meet  them.     And  now  were  these  two  men, 
as  it  were,  in  heaven  before  they  came  at  it,  being  swal- 
lowed up  with  the  sight  of  angels,  and  with  hearing  of 
their  melodious  notes.     Here,  also,  they  had  the  city  250 
itself  in  view,  and  thought  they  heard  all  the  bells  therein 
to  ring  to  welcome  them  thereto.     But,  above  all,  the 
(varm  and  joyful  thoughts  that  they  had  about  their  own 


BUN  YAM  207 

dwelling  there  with  such  company,  and  that  for  ever  and 
ever  —  oh,  by  what  tongue  or  pen  can  their  glorious  joy  255 
be  expressed !     Thus  they  came  up  to  the  gate. 

Now,  when  they  were  come  up  to  the  gate,  there  was 
written  over  it  in  letters  of  gold,  *'  Blessed  are  they  that 
do  His  commandments,  that  they  may  have  right  to  the 
tree  of  life,  and  may  enter  in  through  the  gates  into  the  260 
city." 

Then  I  saw  in  my  dream  that  the  two  Shining  Men 
bade  them  call  at  the  gate.  The  which  when  they  did, 
some  from  above  looked  over  the  gate  —  to  wit,  Enoch, 
Moses,  and  Elijah,  etc.  — to  whom  it  was  said,  "These 265 
pilgrims  are  come  from  the  City  of  Destruction  for  the 
love  that  they  bear  to  the  King  of  this  place  " :  and  then 
the  pilgrims  gave  in  unto  them  each  man  his  certificate 
which  they  had  received  in  the  beginning.  Those,  there- 
fore, were  carried  in  to  the  King,  who,  when  he  had  270 
read  them,  said,  "Where  are  the  men?"  To  whom  it 
was  answered,  "They  are  standing  without  the  gate." 
The  King  then  commanded  to  open  the  gate,  "  that  the 
righteous  nation,"  said  he,  "that  keepeth  truth  may 
enter  in."  275 

Now  I  saw  in  my  dream  that  these  two  men  went  in 
at  the  gate ;  and,  lo !  as  they  entered  they  were  transfig- 
ured, and  they  had  raiment  put  on  that  shone  like  gold. 
There  were  also  that  met  them  with  harps  and  crowns, 
and  gave  them  to  them  —  the  harps  to  praise  withal,  and  28a 
the  crowns  in  token  of  honor.  Then  I  heard  in  my 
dream  that  all  the  bells  in  the  city  rang  again  for  joy, 
and  that  it  was  said  unto  them,  "  Enter  ye  into  the  joy 
of  your  Lord."  I  also  heard  the  men  themselves  that 
they  sang  with  a  loud  voice,  saying,  "Blessing,  and 285 
honor,  and  glory,  and  power  be  unto  him  that  sitteth 


208  FROM  CHAUCER   TO  ARNOLD 

upon  the   throne,    and   unto   the  Lamb,  for  ever  and 
ever." 

Now,  just  as  the  gates  were  opened  to  let  in  the  men, 
I  looked  in  after  them,  and  behold,  the  city  shone  like  29a 
the  sun;  the  streets  also  were  paved  with  gold,  and  in 
them  walked  many  men  with  crowns  on  their  heads, 
palms  in  their  hands,  and  golden  harps,  to  sing  praises 
withal. 

There  were  also  of  them  that  had  wings,  and  they  an-  295 
swered  one  another  without  intermission,  saying,  "  Holy, 
holy,  holy  is  the  Lord ! "     And  after  that,  they  shut  up 
the  gates;  which,  when  I  had  seen,  I  wished  myself 
among  them.  .  .  . 

So  I  awoke;  and  behold,  it  was  a  dream.  300 


JOHN    DRYDEN 
(X63X-1700) 

AN   ESSAY   ON   DRAMATIC   POETRY 
Shakespeare  and  Jonson 

Shakespeare  was  the  man  who  of  all  modern,  and 
perhaps  ancient  poets,  had  the  largest  and  most  com- 
prehensive soul.  All  the  images  of  nature  were  still 
present  to  him,  and  he  drew  them  not  laboriously,  but 
luckily :  when  he  describes  anything,  you  more  than  see  5 
it,  you  feel  it  too.  Those  who  accuse  him  to  have 
wanted  learning,  give  him  the  greater  commendation: 
he  was  naturally  learned;  he  needed  not  the  spectacles 
of  books  to  read  nature;  he  looked  inwards,  and  found 
her  there.  I  cannot  say  he  is  everywhere  alike;  were  10 
he  so,  I  should  do  him  injury  to  compare  him  with  the 
greatest  of  mankind.  He  is  many  times  fiat,  insipid; 
his  comic  wit  degenerating  into  clenches,  his  serious 
swelling  into  bombast.  But  he  is  always  great,  when 
some  great  occasion  is  presented  to  him :  no  man  can  15 
say,  he  ever  had  a  fit  subject  for  his  wit,  and  did  not 
then  raise  himself  as  high  above  the  rest  of  poets, 

Quantum  lenta  solent  inter  viburna  cupressi. 

The  consideration  of  this  made  Mr.  Hales  of  Eton  say, 
that  there  was  no  subject  of  which  any  poet  ever  writ,   20 
but  he  would  produce  it  much  better  done  in  Shake- 
p  209 


210  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

speare;  and  however  others  are  now  generally  preferred 
before  him,  yet  the  age  wherein  he  lived,  which  had 
contemporaries  with  him,  Fletcher  and  Jonson,  never 
equalled  them  to  him  in  their  esteem :  and  in  the  last  25 
king's  court,  when  Ben's  reputation  was  at  highest.  Sir 
John  Suckling,  and  with  him  the  greater  part  of  the 
courtiers,  set  our  Shakespeare  far  above  him. 

Beaumont  and  Fletcher,  of  whom  I  am  next  to  speak, 
had,  with  the  advantages  of  Shakespeare's  wit,  which  30 
was  their  precedent,  great  natural  gifts  improved  by 
study;  Beaumont  especially  being  so  accurate  a  judge  of 
plays  that  Ben  Jonson,  while  he  lived,  submitted  all  his 
writings  to  his  censure,  and  'tis  thought,  used  his  judg- 
ment in  correcting,  if  not  contriving,  all  his  plots.  35 
What  value  he  had  for  him,  appears  by  the  verses  he  writ 
to  him;  and  therefore  I  need  speak  no  farther  of  it. 
The  first  play  that  brought  Fletcher  and  him  in  esteem, 
was  their  "  Philaster;  "  for  before  that,  they  had  written 
two  or  three  very  unsuccessfully :  as  the  like  is  reported  40 
of  Ben  Jonson  before  he  writ  "  Every  Man  in  his  Hu- 
mour." Their  plots  were  generally  more  regular  than 
Shakespeare's,  especially  those  which  were  made  before 
Beaumont's  death;  and  they  understood  and  imitated 
the  conversation  of  gentlemen  much  better;  whose  wild  45 
debaucheries,  and  quickness  of  wit  in  repartees,  no  poet 
before  them  could  paint  as  they  have  done.  Humour, 
which  Ben  Jonson  derived  from  particular  persons,  they 
made  it  not  their  business  to  describe :  they  represented 
all  the  passions  very  lively,  but  above  all,  love.  I  am  50 
apt  to  believe  the  English  language  in  them  arrived  to  its 
highest  perfection;  what  words  have  since  been  taken 
in,  are  rather  superfluous  than  ornamental.  Their  plays 
are  now  the  most  pleasant  and  frequent  entertainments 


DRYDEN  211 

of  the  stage;  two  of  theirs  being  acted  through  the  year  55 
for  one  of  Shakespeare's  or  Jonson's:  the  reason  is, 
because  there  is  a  certain  gaiety  in  their  comedies,  and 
pathos  in  their  more  serious  plays,  which  suits  generally 
with  all  men's  humours.  Shakespeare's  language  is  like- 
wise a  little  obsolete,  and  Ben  Jonson's  wit  comes  short  60 
of  theirs. 

As  for  Jonson,  to  whose  character  I  am  now  arrived, 
if  we  look  upon  him  while  he  was  himself  (for  his  last 
plays  were  but  his  dotages),  I  think  him  the  most  learned 
and  judicious  writer  which  any  theatre  ever  had.  He  65 
was  a  most  severe  judge  of  himself,  as  well  as  others. 
One  cannot  say  he  wanted  wit,  but  rather  that  he  was 
frugal  of  it.  In  his  works  you  find  little  to  retrench  or 
alter.  Wit  and  language,  and  humour  also  in  some 
measure,  we  had  before  him;  but  something  of  art  was  70 
wanting  to  the  drama  till  he  came.  He  managed  his 
strength  to  more  advantage  than  any  who  preceded  him. 
You  seldom  find  him  making  love  in  any  of  his  scenes, 
or  endeavouring  to  move  the  passions;  his  genius  was 
too  sullen  and  saturnine  to  do  it  gracefully,  especially  75 
when  he  knew  he  came  after  those  who  had  performed 
both  to  such  an  height.  Humour  was  his  proper  sphere; 
and  in  that  he  delighted  most  to  represent  mechanic 
people.  He  was  deeply  conversant  in  the  ancients, 
both  Greek  and  Latin,  and  he  borrowed  boldly  from  80 
them :  there  is  scarce  a  poet  or  historian  among  the 
Roman  authors  of  those  times,  whom  he  has  not  trans- 
lated in  "Sej  anus"  and  "Catiline."  But  he  has  done 
his  robberies  so  openly,  that  one  may  see  he  fears  not  to 
be  taxed  by  any  law.  He  invades  authors  like  a  mon-  85 
arch;  and  what  would  be  theft  in  other  poets,  is  only 
victory  in  him.     With  the  spoils  of  these  writers  he  so 


212  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

represents  old  Rome  to  us,  in  its  rites,  ceremonies,  and 
customs,  that  if  one  of  their  poets  had  written  either  of 
his  tragedies,  we  had  seen  less  of  it  than  in  him.     If  90 
there  was  any  fault  in  his  language,  it  was  that  he  weaved 
it  too  closely  and   laboriously,   in  his  comedies  espe- 
cially :  perhaps  too,  he  did  a  little  too  much  Romanize 
our  tongue,  leaving  the  words  which  he  translated  almost 
as  much  Latin  as  he  found  them :  wherein,  though  he  95 
learnedly  followed  their  language,   he  did  not  enough 
comply  with  the  idiom  of  ours.    If  I  would  compare  him 
with  Shakespeare,   I  must  acknowledge  him  the  more 
correct  poet,  but  Shakespeare  the  greater  wit.     Shake- 
speare was  the  Homer,  or  father  of  our  dramatic  poets;  100 
Jonson  was  the  Virgil,  the  pattern  of  elaborate  writing : 
I  admire  him,  but  I  love  Shakespeare.     To  conclude  of 
him;  as  he  has  given  us  the  most  correct  plays,  so  in  the 
precepts  which  he  has  laid  down  in  his  "Discoveries," 
we  have  as  many  and  profitable  rules  for  perfecting  the  105 
stage,  as  any  wherewith  the  French  can  furnish  us. 


TO  THE  PIOUS  MEMORY  OF  THE  ACCOMPLISHED 
YOUNG  LADY,  MRS.  ANNE  KILLIGREVV,  EXCEL- 
LENT IN  THE  TWO  SISTER  ARTS  OF  POESY  AND 

PAINTING  ^     ^  ,       ^^^ 

An  Ode,  1686 

Thou  youngest  virgin-daughter  of  the  skies 
Made  in  the  last  promotion  of  the  blest; 

Whose  palms,  new  plucked  from  Paradise, 

In  spreading  branches  more  sublimely  rise. 

Rich  with  immortal  green  above  the  rest :  5 

Whether,  adopted  to  some  neighbouring  star. 


DRYDEN  213 

Thou  roU'st  above  us  in  thy  wandering  race, 

Or  in  procession  fixed  and  regular 
Moved  with  the  heavens'  majestic  pace, 

Or  called  to  more  superior  bliss,  la 

Thou  tread'st  with  seraphims  the  vast  abyss : 
Whatever  happy  region  be  thy  place, 
Cease  thy  celestial  song  a  little  space  ; 
Thou  wilt  have  time  enough  for  hymns  divine. 
Since  Heaven's  eternal  year  is  thine.  15 

Hear  then  a  mortal  Muse  thy  praise  rehearse. 

In  no  ignoble  verse, 
But  such  as  thy  own  voice  did  practise  here. 
When  thy  first  fi"uits  of  poesy  were  given, 
To  make  thyself  a  welcome  inmate  there ;  ao 

While  yet  a  young  probationer, 
And  candidate  of  Heaven. 

If  by  traduction  came  thy  mind, 

Our  wonder  is  the  less  to  find 
A  soul  so  charming  from  a  stock  so  good ;  35 

Thy  father  was  transfused  into  thy  blood : 
So  wert  thou  born  into  the  tuneful  strain, 
(An  early,  rich,  and  inexhausted  vein.) 

But  if  thy  pre-existing  soul 
Was  formed  at  first  with  myriads  more,  jo 

It  did  through  all  the  mighty  poets  roll 
Who  Greek  or  Latin  laurels  wore. 
And  was  that  Sappho  last,  which  once  it  was  before. 
If  so,  then  cease  thy  fight,  O  heaven-born  mind  ! 
Thou  hast  no  dross  to  purge  from  thy  rich  ore :  35 

Nor  can  thy  soul  a  fairer  mansion  find 

Than  was  the  beauteous  frame  she  left  behind  : 
Return,  to  fill  or  mend  the  quire  of  thy  celestial  kind. 


214  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

May  we  presume  to  say  that,  at  thy  birth, 
New  joy  was  sprung  in  heaven  as  well  as  here  on  earth?  40 
For  sure  the  milder  planets  did  combine 
On  thy  auspicious  horoscope  to  shine, 
And  even  the  most  malicious  were  in  trine. 
Thy  brother-angels  at  thy  birth 

Strung  each  his  lyre,  and  tuned  it  high,  45 

That  all  the  people  of  the  sky 
Might  know  a  poetess  was  born  on  earth ; 
And  then,  if  ever,  mortal  ears 
Had  heard  the  music  of  the  spheres. 
And  if  no  clustering  swarm  of  bees  50 

On  thy  sweet  mouth  distilled  their  golden  dew, 
Twas  that  such  vulgar  miracles 
Heaven  had  not  leisure  to  renew : 
For  all  the  blest  fraternity  of  love  54 

Solemnized  there  thy  birth,  and  kept  thy  holiday  above. 

O  gracious  God  !  how  far  have  we 
Profaned  thy  heavenly  gift  of  Poesy  ! 
Made  prostitute  and  profligate  the  Muse, 
Debased  to  each  obscene  and  impious  use, 
Whose  harmony  was  first  ordained  above,  60 

For  tongues  of  angels  and  for  hymns  of  love  ! 
Oh  wretched  we  !  why  were  we  hurried  down 
This  lubric  and  adulterate  age, 

(Nay,  added  fat  pollutions  of  our  own,) 
To  increase  the  steaming  ordures  of  the  stage  ?        65 

What  can  we  say  to  excuse  our  second  fall  ? 

Let  this  thy  Vestal,  Heaven,  atone  for  all  : 

Her  Arethusian  stream  remains  unsoiled, 

Unmixed  with  foreign  filth  and  undefiled; 
Her  wit  was  more  than  man,  her  innocence  a  child.        70 


DRY  DEN  215 

Art  she  had  none,  yet  wanted  none. 
For  Nature  did  that  want  supply : 
So  rich  in  treasures  of  her  own, 
She  might  our  boasted  stores  defy : 
Such  noble  vigour  did  her  verse  adorn  -   75 

That  it  seemed  borrowed,  where  'twas  only  bom. 
Her  morals  too  were  in  her  bosom  bred, 

By  great  examples  daily  fed, 
What  in  the  best  of  books,  her  father's  life,  she  read 
And  to  be  read  herself  she  need  not  fear ;  80 

Each  test  and  every  light  her  Muse  will  bear. 
Though  Epictetus  with  his  lamp  were  there. 
Even  love  (for  love  sometimes  her  Muse  exprest), 
Was  but  a  lambent  flame  which  played  about  her  breast ; 
Light  as  the  vapours  of  a  morning  dream,  85 

So  cold  herself,  while  she  such  warmth  exprest, 
'Twas  Cupid  bathing  in  Diana's  stream. 

Born  to  the  spacious  empire  of  the  Nine, 
One  would  have  thought  she  should  have  been  content 
To  manage  well  that  mighty  government ;  90 

But  what  can  young  ambitious  souls  confine? 

To  the  next  realm  she  stretched  her  sway. 

For  Painture  near  adjoining  lay, 
A  plenteous  province  and  alluring  prey. 
A  chamber  of  Dependences  was  framed,  95 

(As  conquerors  will  never  want  pretence, 

When  armed,  to  justify  the  offence). 
And  the  whole  fief  in  right  of  Poetry  she  claimed. 

The  country  open  lay  without  defence. 
For  poets  frequent  inroads  there  had  made,  100 

And  perfectly  could  represent 

The  shape,  the  face,  with  every  lineament, 


2l6  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

And  all  the  large  domains  which  the  dumb  Sister  swayed ; 

All  bowed  beneath  her  government, 

Received  in  triumph  wheresoe'er  she  went.  105 

Her  pencil  drew  whate'er  her  soul  designed, 
And  oft  the  happy  draught  surpassed  the  image  in  her  mind. 

The  sylvan  scenes  of  herds  and  flocks 

And  fruitful  plains  and  barren  rocks ; 

Of  shallow  brooks  that  flowed  so  clear,  no 

The  bottom  did  the  top  appear ; 

Of  deeper  too  and  ampler  floods 

Which,  as  in  mirrors,  showed  the  woods ; 

Of  lofty  trees,  with  sacred  shades 

And  perspectives  of  pleasant  glades,  115 

Where  nymphs  of  brightest  form  appear. 

And  shaggy  satyrs  standing  near. 

Which  them  at  once  admire  and  fear. 

The  ruins  too  of  some  majestic  piece. 

Boasting  the  power  of  ancient  Rome  or  Greece,  120 

Whose  statues,  friezes,  columns,  broken  lie. 

And,  though  defaced,  the  wonder  of  the  eye ; 

What  nature,  art,  bold  fiction,  e'er  durst  frame, 

Her  forming  hand  gave  feature  to  the  name. 

So  strange  a  concourse  ne'er  was  seen  before,  125 

But  when  the  peopled  ark  the  whole  creation  bore. 

The  scene  then  changed  ;  with  bold  erected  look 
Our  martial  King  the  sight  with  reverence  strook : 
For,  not  content  to  express  his  outward  part. 
Her  hand  called  out  the  image  of  his  heart :  130 

His  warlike  mind,  his  soul  devoid  of  fear. 
His  high-designing  thoughts  were  figured  there, 
As  when  by  magic  ghosts  are  made  appear. 

Our  phoenix  queen  was  portrayed  too  so  bright. 


DRYDEN  217 

Beauty  alone  could  beauty  take  so  right :  135 

Her  dress,  her  shape,  her  matchless  grace, 

Were  all  observed,  as  well  as  heavenly  face. 

With  such  a  peerless  majesty  she  stands, 

As  in  that  day  she  took  the  crown  from  sacred  hands 

Before  a  train  of  heroines  was  seen,  140 

In  beauty  foremost,  as  in  rank  the  queen. 

Thus  nothing  to  her  genius  was  denied, 
But  like  a  ball  of  fire,  the  farther  thrown. 
Still  with  a  greater  blaze  she  shone. 

And  her  bright  soul  broke  out  on  every  side.  145 

What  next  she  had  designed,  Heaven  only  knows  : 
To  such  immoderate  growth  her  conquest  rose 
That  Fate  alone  its  progress  could  oppose. 

Now  all  those  charms,  that  blooming  grace. 

The  well-proportioned  shape  and  beauteous  face,       150 

Shall  never  more  be  seen  by  mortal  eyes ; 

In  earth  the  much-lamented  virgin  lies. 

Not  wit  nor  piety  could  Fate  prevent ; 

Nor  was  the  cruel  Destiny  content 

To  finish  all  the  murder  at  a  blow,  155 

To  sweep  at  once  her  life  and  beauty  too ; 
But,  like  a  hardened  felon,  took  a  pride 

To  work  more  mischievously  slow. 
And  plundered  first,  and  then  destroyed. 
O  double  sacrilege  on  things  divine,  160 

To  rob  the  relic,  and  deface  the  shrine  ! 

But  thus  Orinda  died  : 
Heaven  by  the  same  disease  did  both  translate ; 
As  equal  were  their  souls,  so  equal  was  their  fate. 
Meantime,  her  warlike  brother  on  the  seas  165 

His  waving  streamers  to  the  wind  displays, 


2l8  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

And  vows  for  his  return  with  vain  devotion  pays. 

Ah,  generous  youth  !  that  wish  forbear, 
The  winds  too  soon  will  waft  thee  here  ! 
Slack  all  thy  sails,  and  fear  to  come ;  17a 

Alas  !  thou  knowst  not,  thou  art  wrecked  at  home. 
No  more  shalt  thou  behold  thy  sister's  face, 
Thou  hast  already  had  her  last  embrace. 
But  look  aloft,  and  if  thou  kenst  from  far. 
Among  the  Pleiads,  a  new-kindled  star,  175 

If  any  sparkles  than  the  rest  more  bright, 
'Tis  she  that  shines  in  that  propitious  light. 

When  in  mid-air  the  golden  trump  shall  sound. 

To  raise  the  nations  under  ground  ; 

When  in  the  Valley  of  Jehosophat  i8a 

The  judging  God  shall  close  the  book  of  Fate, 

And  there  the  last  assizes  keep 

For  those  who  wake  and  those  who  sleep  j 

When  ratthng  bones  together  fly 

From  the  four  corners  of  the  sky ;  185 

When  sinews  o'er  the  skeletons  are  spread, 
Those  clothed  with  flesh,  and  life  inspires  the  dead ; 
The  sacred  poets  first  shall  hear  the  sound. 
And  foremost  from  the  tomb  shall  bound, 
For  they  are  covered  with  the  lightest  ground  ;  190 

And  straight,  with  inborn  vigour,  on  the  wing, 
Like  mounting  larks,  to  the  new  morning  sing. 
There  thou,  sweet  saint,  before  the  quire  shalt  go, 
As  harbinger  of  Heaven,  the  way  to  show, 
The  way  which  thou  so  well  hast  learned  below.         195 


DRYDEN  219 

ALEXANDER'S  FEAST ;    OR,  THE  POWER  OF  MUSIC 
A  Song  in  Honour  of  Si.  Cecilia's  Day,  i6gy 

TwAS  at  the  royal  feast  for  Persia  won 
By  Philip's  warlike  son  : 
Aloft  in  awful  state 
The  godlike  hero  sate 

On  his  imperial  throne  ;  5 

His  valiant  peers  were  placed  around ; 
Their  brows  with  roses  and  with  myrtles  bound  : 

(So  should  desert  in  arms  be  crowned.) 
The  lovely  Thais,  by  his  side, 

Sate  like  a  blooming  Eastern  bride,  10 

In  flower  of  youth  and  beauty's  pride. 
Happy,  happy,  happy  pair  ! 
None  but  the  brave, 
None  but  the  brave, 
None  but  the  brave  deserves  the  fair.  15 

Timotheus,  placed  on  high 
Amid  the  tuneful  quire, 
With  flying  fingers  touched  the  lyre  : 

The  trembling  notes  ascend  the  sky, 

And  heavenly  joys  inspire.  ao 

The  song  began  from  Jove, 
Who  left  his  blissful  seats  above, 
(Such  is  the  power  of  mighty  love.) 
A  dragon's  fiery  form  belied  the  God  : 
Sublime  on  radiant  spires  he  rode,  25 

When  he  to  fair  Olympia  pressed  ; 
And  while  he  sought  her  snowy  breast, 


220  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

Then  round  her  slender  waist  he  curled, 
And  stamped  an  image  of  himself,  a  sovereign  of  the  world. 
The  listening  crowd  admire  the  lofty  sound,  3a 

A  present  deity,  they  shout  around ; 
A  present  deity,  the  vaulted  roofs  rebound : 

With  ravished  ears 

The  monarch  hears, 

Assumes  the  God,  35 

Affects  to  nod. 
And  seems  to  shake  the  spheres. 

The  praise  of  Bacchus  then  the  sweet  musician  sung. 
Of  Bacchus  ever  fair,  and  ever  young. 

The  jolly  God  in  triumph  comes ;  40 

Sound  the  trumpets,  beat  the  drums ; 
Flushed  with  a  purple  grace 
He  shows  his  honest  face  : 
Now  give  the  hautboys  breath ;  he  comes,  he  comes. 

Bacchus,  ever  fair  and  young,  45 

Drinking  joys  did  first  ordain ; 
Bacchus'  blessings  are  a  treasure. 
Drinking  is  the  soldier's  pleasure ; 
Rich  the  treasure. 

Sweet  the  pleasure,  50 

Sweet  is  pleasure  after  pain. 

Soothed  with  the  sound  the  king  grew  vain ; 
Fought  all  his  battles  o'er  again  ; 
And  thrice  he  routed  all  his  foes,  and  thrice  he  slew  the  slain. 
The  master  saw  the  madness  rise,  55 

His  glowing  cheeks,  his  ardent  eyes ; 
And  while  he  heaven  and  earth  defied. 
Changed  his  hand,  and  checked  his  pride. 


DRYDEN  221 

He  chose  a  mournful  Muse, 
Soft  pity  to  infuse  ;  60 

He  sung  Darius  great  and  good, 
By  too  severe  a  fate, 
Fallen,  fallen,  fallen,  fallen. 

Fallen  from  his  high  estate, 
And  weltering  in  his  blood ;  65 

Deserted  at  his  utmost  need 
By  those  his  former  bounty  fed  ; 
On  the  bare  earth  exposed  he  lies. 
With  not  a  friend  to  close  his  eyes. 
With  downcast  looks  the  joyous  victor  sate,  70 

Revolving  in  his  altered  soul 

The  various  turns  of  chance  below : 
And,  now  and  then,  a  sigh  he  stole. 
And  tears  began  to  flow. 

The  mighty  master  smiled  to  see  75 

That  love  was  in  the  next  degree  ; 
'Twas  but  a  kindred  sound  to  move, 
For  pity  melts  the  mind  to  love. 

Softly  sweet,  in  Lydian  measures. 

Soon  he  soothed  his  soul  to  pleasures.  80 

War,  he  sung,  is  toil  and  trouble  : 
Honour  but  an  empty  bubble; 

Never  ending,  still  beginning. 
Fighting  still,  and  still  destroying  : 

If  the  world  be  worth  thy  winning,  85 

Think,  O  think  it  worth  enjoying  : 

Lovely  Thais  sits  beside  thee, 

Take  the  good  the  gods  provide  thee. 
The  many  rend  the  skies  with  loud  applause  ; 
So  Love  was  crowned,  but  Music  won  the  cause.         90 


±2i  FROM  CHAVCER    TO  ARNOLD 

The  prince,  unable  to  conceal  his  pain, 
Gazed  on  the  fair 
Who  caused  his  care. 
And  sighed  and  looked,  sighed  and  looked, 
Sighed  and  looked,  and  sighed  again ;  95 

At  length,  with  love  and  wine  at  once  oppressed, 
The  vanquished  victor  sunk  upon  her  breast. 

Now  strike  the  golden  lyre  again ; 
A  louder  yet,  and  yet  a  louder  strain. 
Break  his  bands  of  sleep  asunder,  100 

And  rouse  him,  like  a  rattling  peal  of  thunder. 
Hark,  hark,  the  horrid  sound 
Has  raised  up  his  head  ; 
As  awaked  from  the  dead. 
And,  amazed,  he  stares  around.  105 

*  Revenge,  revenge  ! '  Timotheus  cries ; 
*  See  the  Furies  arise  ; 
See  the  snakes  that  they  rear, 
How  they  hiss  in  their  hair. 
And  the  sparkles  that  flash  from  their  eyes  !  no 

Behold  a  ghastly  band, 
Each  a  torch  in  his  hand  ! 
Those  are  Grecian  ghosts,  that  in  battle  were  slain, 
And  unburied  remain 

Inglorious  on  the  plain  :  115 

Give  the  vengeance  due 
To  the  valiant  crew. 
Behold  how  they  toss  their  torches  on  high, 
How  they  point  to  the  Persian  abodes, 
And  glittering  temples  of  their  hostile  gods.*  120 

The  princes  applaud  with  a  furious  joy  ; 
And  the  king  seized  a  flambeau  with  zeal  to  destroy; 


DRYDEN  223 

Thais  led  the  way, 
To  light  him  to  his  prey, 
And,  like  another  Helen,  fired  another  Troy.  125 

Thus  long  ago, 
Ere  heaving  bellows  learned  to  blow. 
While  organs  yet  were  mute, 
Timotheus,  to  his  breathing  flute 

And  sounding  lyre,  130 

Could  swell  the  soul  to  rage,  or  kindle  soft  desire. 
At  last  divine  Cecilia  came, 
Inventress  of  the  vocal  frame  ; 
The  sweet  enthusiast  from  her  sacred  store, 

Enlarged  the  former  narrow  bounds,  135 

And  added  length  to  solemn  sounds. 
With  Nature's  mother-wit,  and  arts  unknown  before. 
Let  old  Timotheus  yield  the  prize, 

Or  both  divide  the  crown  : 
He  raised  a  mortal  to  the  skies ;  140 

She  drew  an  angel  down. 


LINES   PRINTED  UNDER   THE   ENGRAVED   POR- 
TRAIT  OF   MILTON 

(/«  Tonwn's  Folio  Edition  of  the  ^Paradise  Lost,'  1688) 

Three  poets,  in  three  distant  ages  born, 
Greece,  Italy,  and  England  did  adorn. 
The  first  in  loftiness  of  thought  surpassed, 
The  next  in  majesty,  in  both  the  last. 
The  force  of  Nature  could  no  farther  go ; 
To  make  a  third  she  joined  the  former  two. 


DANIEL   DEFOE 

(1661-1731) 

ROBINSON  CRUSOE 
The  Shipwreck 

Being  in  the  latitude  of  twelve  degrees  eighteen  min- 
utes, a  second  storm  came  upon  us,  which  carried  us 
away  with  the  same  impetuosity  westward,  and  drove  us 
so  out  of  the  very  way  of  all  human  commerce,  that  had 
all  our  lives  been  saved,  as  to  the  sea,  we  were  rather  in  5 
danger  of  being  devoured  by  savages  than  ever  returning 
to  our  own  country. 

In  this  distress,  the  wind  still  blowing  very  hard,  one 
of  our  men  early  in  the  morning  cried  out,  "Land!" 
We  had  no  sooner  run  out  of  the  cabin  to  look  out,  in  10 
hopes  of  seeing  whereabouts  in  the  world  we  were,  but 
the  ship  struck  upon  sand,  and,  in  a  moment,  her  motion 
being  so  stopped,  the  sea  broke  over  her  in  such  a  man- 
ner, that  we  expected  we  should  all  have  perished  imme- 
diately. We  were  immediately  driven  into  our  close  15 
quarters,  to  shelter  us  from  the  very  foam  and  spray  of 
the  sea. 

It  is  not  easy  for  any  one,  who  has  not  been  in  the 
like  condition,  to  describe  or  conceive  the  consternation 
of  men  in  such  circumstances.     We  knew  nothing  where  20 
we  were,   or  upon  what  land  it  was  we  were  driven, 
whether  an  island  or  the  main,  whether  inhabited  or  not 

224 


DEFOE  225 

inhabited.  As  the  rage  of  the  wind  was  still  great, 
though  rather  less  than  at  first,  we  could  not  so  much  as 
hope  to  have  the  ship  hold  many  minutes  without  break-  25 
ing  in  pieces,  unless  the  winds,  by  a  kind  of  miracle, 
should  turn  immediately  about.  In  a  word,  we  sat  look- 
ing one  upon  another,  expecting  death  every  moment, 
and  every  man  acting  as  if  preparing  for  another  world, 
for  there  was  little  or  nothing  more  for  us  to  do  in  this.  30 
That  which  was  our  present  comfort,  and  all  the  comfort 
we  had,  was,  that  contrary  to  our  expectation  the  ship 
did  not  break  yet,  and  that  the  master  said  the  wind 
began  to  abate. 

Now,  though  we  found  that  the  wind  did  a  little  abate,  35 
yet  the  ship  having  thus  struck  upon  the  sand,  and  stick- 
ing too  fast  for  us  to  expect  her  getting  off,  we  were  in 
a  dreadful  condition  indeed,  and  had  nothing  to  do  but 
to  think  of  saving  our  lives  as  well  as  we  could.     We 
had  a  boat  at  our  stern  just  before  the  storm,  but  she  40 
was  first  stove  by  dashing  against  the  ship's  rudder,  and 
in  the  next  place  she  broke  away,  and  either  sunk  or  was 
driven  off  to  sea,  so  there  was  no  hope  from  her.     We 
had  another  boat  on  board,  but  how  to  get  her  off  into 
the  sea  was  a  doubtful  thing.     However,  there  was  no  45 
room  to  debate,  for  we  fancied  the  ship  would  break  in 
pieces  every  minute,  and  some  told  us  she  was  actually 
broken  already. 

In  this  distress,  the  mate  of  our  vessel  lays  hold  of  the 
boat,  and  with  the  help  of  the  rest  of  the  men,  got  her  50 
over  the  ship's  side,  and  getting  all  into  her,  we  let  go, 
and  committed  ourselves,  being  eleven  in  number,  to 
God's  mercy  and  the  wild  sea. 

And  now  our  case  was  very  dismal  indeed;  for  we  all 
saw  plainly,  that  the  sea  went  so  high,  that  the  boat  could  55 
Q 


226  FROM   CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

not  live,  and  that  we  should  be  inevitably  drowned.  As 
to  making  sail,  we  had  none,  nor,  if  we  had,  could  we 
have  done  anything  with  it.  So  we  worked  at  the  oar 
towards  the  land,  though  with  heavy  hearts,  like  men 
going  to  execution;  for  we  all  knew,  that  when  the  boat  60 
came  nearer  the  shore  she  would  be  dashed  in  a  thousand 
pieces  by  the  breach  of  the  sea.  However,  we  committed 
our  souls  to  God  in  the  most  earnest  manner,  and  the 
wind  driving  us  towards  the  shore,  we  hastened  our  de- 
struction with  our  own  hands,  pulling  as  well  as  we  could  65 
towards  land. 

What  the  shore  was,  whether  rock  or  sand,  whether 
steep  or  shoal,  we  knew  not.  The  only  hope  that  could 
rationally  give  us  the  least  shadow  of  expectation  was, 
if  we  might  happen  into  some  bay  or  gulf,  or  the  mouth  70 
of  some  river,  where  by  great  chance  we  might  run  our 
boat  in,  or  get  under  the  lee  of  the  land,  and  perhaps 
make  smooth  water. 

After  we  had  rowed,  or  rather  driven,  about  a  league 
and  a  half,  as  we  reckoned  it,  a  raging  wave,  moun-  75 
tainlike,  came  rolling  a-stern  of  us,  and  plainly  bade  us 
expect  the  coup-de-grace.  In  a  word,  it  took  us  with 
such  a  fury,  that  it  overset  the  boat  at  once;  and  we 
were  all  swallowed  up  in  a  moment. 

Nothing  can  describe  the  confusion  of  thought  which  80 
I  felt  when  I  sunk  into  the  water.  Though  I  swam  very 
well,  yet  I  could  not  deliver  myself  from  the  waves  so  as 
to  draw  breath,  till  that  wave  having  driven  me,  or  rather 
carried  me,  a  vast  way  on  towards  the  shore,  and  having 
spent  itself,  went  back,  and  left  me  upon  the  land  almost  85 
dry,  but  half  dead  with  the  water  I  took  in.  I  had  so 
much  presence  of  mind,  as  well  as  breath  left,  that  seeing 
myself  nearer  the  mainland  than  I  expected,  I  got  upon 


DEFOE  227 

my  feet,  and  endeavored  to  make  on  towards  the  land  as 
fast   as  I  could,  before  another  wave  should  return  and  90 
take  me  up  again.     But  I  soon  found  it  was  impossible 
to  avoid  it;  for  I  saw  the  sea  come  after  me  as  high  as 
a  great  hill,  and  as  furious  as  an  enemy  which  I  had  no 
means  or  strength  to  contend  with.     My  business  was  to 
hold  my  breath,  and  raise  myself  upon   the  water,  if  I  95 
could;  and  so  by  swimming  to  preserve  my  breathing, 
and  pilot  myself  towards  the  shore   if   possible.     My 
greatest  concern  now  being  that  the  sea,  as  it  would  carry 
me  a  great  way  towards  the  shore  when   it  came  on, 
might  not  carry  me  back  again  with  it  when  it  gave  back  100 
towards  the  sea. 

The  wave  that  came  upon  me  again  buried  me  at  once 
twenty  or  thirty  feet  deep  in  its  own  body,  and  I  could 
feel  myself  carried  with  a  mighty  force  and  swiftness 
towards   the   shore   a  very  great  way;  but  I  held   my  105 
breath,  and  assisted  myself  to  swim  still  forward  with  all 
my   might.      I   was   ready  to   burst   with   holding   my 
breath,  when,  as  I  felt  myself  rising  up,  to  my  immedi- 
ate relief,  I  found  my  head  and  hands  shoot  out  above 
the  surface  of  the  water.     Though  it  was  not  two  sec-  no 
onds  of  time  that  I  could  keep  myself  so,  yet  it  relieved 
me  greatly,  gave  me  breath  and  new  courage.     I  was  cov- 
ered again  with  water  a  good  while,  but  not  so  long  but 
I  held  it  out.     Finding  the  water  had  spent  itself,  and 
began  to  return,  I  struck  forAvard  against  the  return  of  115 
the  waves,  and  felt  ground  again  with  my  feet.     I  stood 
still  a  few  moments  to  recover  breath,  and  till  the  water 
went  from  me,  and  then  took  to  my  heels  and  ran  with 
what  strength  I   had  farther  towards   the   shore.     But 
neither  would  this  deliver  me  from  the  fury  of  the  sea,  120 
which  came  pouring  in  after  me  again,  and  twice  more 


228  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

I  was  lifted  up  by  the  waves  and  carried  forwards  as 
before,  the  shore  being  very  flat. 

The  last  time  of  these  two  had  well  near  been  fatal  to 
me.  The  sea  having  hurried  me  along  as  before,  landed  125 
me,  or  rather  dashed  me,  against  a  piece  of  a  rock,  and 
that  with  such  force,  that  it  left  me  senseless,  and  indeed 
helpless,  as  to  my  own  deliverance;  for,  the  blow  taking 
my  side  and  breast,  beat  the  breath,  as  it  were,  quite  out 
of  my  body.  Had  it  not  returned  again  immediately,  1 130 
must  have  been  strangled  in  the  water;  but  I  recovered 
a  little  before  the  return  of  the  waves,  and  seeing  I 
should  be  covered  again  with  the  water,  I  resolved  to 
hold  fast  by  a  piece  of  the  rock,  and  so  hold  my  breath, 
if  possible,  till  the  wave  went  back.  Now,  as  the  waves  135 
were  not  so  high  as  at  first,  being  near  land,  I  held  my 
hold  till  the  wave  abated,  and  then  fetched  another  run, 
which  brought  me  so  near  the  shore  that  the  next  wave, 
though  it  went  over  me,  yet  did  not  so  swallow  me  up  as 
to  carry  me  away.  The  next  nm  I  took  I  got  to  the  140 
mainland,  where,  to  my  great  comfort,  I  clambered  up 
the  clefts  of  the  shore,  and  sat  me  down  upon  the  grass, 
free  from  danger,  and  quite  out  of  the  reach  of  the 
water. 

I  was  now  landed  and  safe  on  shore,  and  began  to  look  145 
up  and  thank  God  that  my  life  was  saved  in  a  case 
wherein  there  was,  some  minutes  before,  scarce  any 
room  to  hope.  I  believe  it  is  impossible  to  express  to 
the  life  what  the  ecstasies  and  transports  of  the  soul  are, 
when  it  is  so  saved,  as  I  may  say,  out  of  the  very  grave.  150 
I  walked  about  on  the  shore,  lifting  up  my  hands,  and 
my  whole  being,  as  I  may  say,  wrapt  up  in  the  contem- 
plation of  my  deliverance,  making  a  thousand  gestures 
and  motions  which  I  cannot  describe,  reflecting  upon 


DEFOE  229 

all  my  comrades  that  were   drowned,   and   that   there  155 
should  not  be  one  soul  saved  but  myself.     As  for  them, 
I  never  saw  them  afterwards,  or  any  sign  of  them,  except 
three  of  their  hats,  one  cap,  and  two  shoes  that  were  not 
fellows. 


THE   PLAGUE   IN   LONDON 
Superstitions 

It  must  not  be  forgot  here,  that  the  city  and  suburbs 
were  prodigiously  full  of  people  at  the  time  of  this  visi- 
tation, I  mean  at  the  time  that  it  began;  for  though  I 
have  lived  to  see  a  farther  increase,  and  mighty  throngs 
of  people  settling  in  London,  more  than  ever;  yet  we 
had  always  a  notion  that  numbers  of  people,  which,  the 
wars  being  over,  the  armies  disbanded,  and  the  royal 
family  and  the  monarchy  being  restored,  had  flocked  to 
London  to  settle  in  business,  or  to  depend  upon,  and 
attend  the  court  for  rewards  of  services,  preferments,  and 
the  like,  was  such,  that  the  town  was  computed  to  have 
in  it  above  a  hundred  thousand  people  more  than  ever 
it  held  before;  nay,  some  took  upon  them  to  say,  it  had 
twice  as  many,  because  all  the  ruined  families  of  the 
royal  party  flocked  hither;  all  the  soldiers  set  up  trades 
here,  and  abundance  of  families  settled  here;  again,  the 
court  brought  with  it  a  great  flux  of  pride  and  new 
fashions;  all  people  were  gay  and  luxurious,  and  the  joy 
of  the  restoration  had  brought  a  vast  many  families  to 
London. 

But  I  must  go  back  again  to  the  beginning  of  this  sur- 
prising time;  while  the  fears  of  the  people  were  young, 
they  were  increased  strangely  by  several  odd  accidents, 


230  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

which  put  together,  it  was  really  a  wonder  the  whole 
body  of  the  people  did  not  rise  as  one  man  and  abandon  25 
their  dwellings,  leaving  the  place  as  a  space  of  ground 
designed  by  heaven  for  an  Akeldama,  doomed  to  be 
destroyed  from  the  face  of  the  earth,  and  that  all  that 
would  be  found  in  it  would  perish  with  it.  I  shall  name 
but  a  few  of  these  things ;  but  sure  they  were  so  many,  30 
and  so  many  wizards  and  cunning  people  propagating 
them,  that  I  have  often  wondered  there  was  any  (women 
especially)  left  behind. 

In  the  first  place,  a  blazing  star  or  comet  appeared  for 
several  months  before  the  plague,  as  there  did  the  year  35 
after,  another,  a  little  before  the  fire;  the  old  women, 
and  the  phlegmatic  hypochondriac  part  of  the  other  sex, 
whom  I  could  almost  call  old  women  too,  remarked,  es- 
pecially afterward,  though  not  till  both  those  judgments 
were  over,  that  those  two  comets  passed  directly  over  the  40 
city,  and  that  so  very  near  the  houses  that  it  was  plain 
they  imported  something  peculiar  to   the   city  alone. 
That  the  comet  before  the  pestilence  was  of  a  faint,  dull, 
languid  colour,  and  its  motion  very  heavy,  solemn,  and 
slow;  but  that  the  comet  before  the  fire,  was  bright  and  45 
sparkling,   or,   as  others  said,   flaming,  and  its  motion 
swift  and  furious,  and  that,  accordingly,  one  foretold  a 
heavy  judgment,  slow  but  severe,  terrible,  and  frightful, 
as  was  the  plague.     But  the  other  foretold  a  stroke, 
sudden,  swift,  and  fiery,  as  was  the  conflagration;  nay,   50 
so  particular  some  people  were,  that  as  they  looked  upon 
that  comet  preceding  the  fire,  they  fancied  that  they  not 
only  saw  it  pass  swiftly  and  fiercely,  and  could  perceive 
the  motion  with  their  eye,  but  even  they  heard  it,  that  it 
made  a  rushing  mighty  noise,  fierce  and  terrible,  though  55 
at  a  distance,  and  but  just  perceivable. 


DEFOE  231 

I  saw  both  these  stars,  and  I  must  confess,  had  had  so 
much  of  the  common  notion  of  such  things  in  my  head, 
that  I  was  apt  to  look  upon  them  as  the  forerunners  and 
warnings  of  God's  judgments,  and  especially  when  the  60 
plague  had  followed  the  first,  I  yet  saw  another  of  the 
like  kind,  I  could  not  but  say  God  had  not  yet  sufficiently 
scourged  the  city. 

The  apprehensions  of  the  people  were  likewise  strangely 
increased  by  the  error  of  the  times,  in  which,  I  think,   65 
the  people,  from  what  principle  I  cannot  imagine,  were 
more  addicted  to  prophecies,  and  astrological  conjura- 
tions, dreams,  and  old  wives'  tales,  than  ever  they  were 
before  or  since :  whether  this  unhappy  temper  was  origi- 
nally raised  by  the  follies  of  some  people  who  got  money  70 
by  it,  that  is  to  say,  by  printing  predictions  and  prognos- 
tications, I  know  not,  but  certain  it  is,  books  frighted 
them   terribly;    such   as   Lily's    Almanack,    Gadbury's 
Astrological  Predictions,  Poor  Robin's  Almanack,  and 
the  like;  also  several  pretended  religious  books,  one  en-  75 
titled,  Come  out  of  Her  my  People,  lest  ye  be  partaker 
of  her  Plagues;  another  called.  Fair  Warning;  another 
Britain's  Remembrancer,  and  many  such;  all,  or  most 
part  of  which,  foretold  directly  or  covertly,  the  ruin  of 
the  city;  nay,  some  were  so  enthusiastically  bold,  as  to  80 
run  about  the  streets  with  their  oral  predictions,  pre- 
tending they  were  sent  to  preach  to  the  city;  and  one  in 
particular,   who,   like  Jonah  to  Nineveh,  cried  in  the 
streets.  Yet  forty  days  and  London  shall  be  destroyed.     I 
will  not  be  positive  whether  he  said  yet  forty  days,  or  yet  85 
a  few  days.     Another  ran  about  naked,  except  a  pair  of 
drawers  about  his  waist,  crying  day  and  night,  like  a 
man  that  Josephus  mentions,  who  cried.  Woe  to  Jerusa- 
lem! a  little  before  the  destruction  of  that  city;  so  this 


232  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

poor  naked  creature  cried,  O !  the  great  and  the  dread-  90 
ful  God!  and  said  no  more,  but  repeated  those  words 
continually,  with  a  voice  and  countenance  full  of  horror, 
a  swift  pace,  and  nobody  could  ever  find  him  to  stop,  or 
rest,  or  take  any  sustenance,  at  least  that  ever  I  could 
hear  of.  I  met  this  poor  creature  several  times  in  the  95 
streets,  and  would  have  spoke  to  him,  but  he  would  not 
enter  into  speech  with  me,  or  any  one  else;  but  kept  on 
his  dismal  cries  continually. 

These  things  terrified  the  people  to  the  last  degree; 
and  especially  when  two  or  three  times,  as  I  have  men- 100 
tioned  already,  they  found  one  or  two  in  the  bills,  dead 
of   the   plague   at   St,    Giles's.     Next   to  these  public 
things,  were  the  dreams  of  old  women;  or,  I  should  say, 
the  interpretation  of  old  women  upon  other  peoples' 
dreams;  and  these  put  abundance  of  people  even  out  of  105 
their  wits.     Some  heard  voices  warning  them  to  be  gone, 
for  that  there  would  be  such  a  plague  in  London,  so  that 
the  living  would  not  be  able  to  bury  the  dead;  others 
saw  apparitions  in  the  air,  and  I  must  be  allowed  to  say 
of  both, I  hope  without  breach  of  charity,  that  they  heard  no 
voices  that  never  spake,  and  saw  sights  that  never  ap- 
peared; but  the  imagination  of  the  people  was  really 
turned  wayward  and  possessed;  and  no  wonder  if  they 
who  were  poring  continually  at  the  clouds,  saw  shapes 
and  figures,  representations  and  appearances,  which  had  115 
nothing  in  them  but  air  and  vapour.     Here  they  told  us 
they  saw  a  flaming  sword  held  in  a  hand,  coming  out  of 
a  cloud,  with  a  point  hanging  directly  over  the  city. 
There  they  saw  hearses  and  coffins  in  the  air  carrying  to 
be  buried.     And  there  again,  heaps  of  dead  bodies  lying  120 
unburied  and  the  like;  just  as  the  imagination  of  the  poor 
terrified  people  furnished  them  with  matter  to  work  upon. 


DEFOE  233 

So  hypochondriac  fancies  represent 

Ships,  armies,  battles  in  the  firmament; 

Till  steady  eyes  the  exhalations  solve,  125 

And  all  to  its  first  matter,  cloud,  resolve. 

I  could  fill  this  account  with  the  strange  relations  such 
people  give  every  day  of  what  they  have  seen;  and  every 
one  was  so  positive  of  their  having  seen  what  they  pre- 
tended to  see,  that  there  was  no  contradicting  them  with- 130 
out  breach  of  friendship,  or  being  accounted  rude  and 
unmannerly  on  the  one  hand,  and  profane  and  impene- 
trable on  the  other.  One  time  before  the  plague  was 
begun,  otherwise  than  as  I  have  said  in  St.  Giles's,  I 
think  it  was  in  March,  seeing  a  crowd  of  people  in  the  135 
street,  I  joined  with  them  to  satisfy  my  curiosity,  and 
found  them  all  staring  up  into  the  air  to  see  what  a 
woman  told  them  appeared  plain  to  her,  which  was  an 
angel  clothed  in  white,  with  a  fiery  sword  in  his  hand, 
waving  it  or  brandishing  it  over  his  head.  She  described  140 
every  part  of  the  figure  to  the  life,  showed  them  the 
motion  and  the  form,  and  the  poor  people  came  into  it 
so  "eagerly  and  with  so  much  readiness:  Yes!  I  see  it  all 
plainly,  says  one,  there's  the  sword  as  plain  as  can  be; 
another  saw  the  angel;  one  saw  his  very  face,  and  cried  145 
out.  What  a  glorious  creature  he  was !  One  saw  one 
thing,  and  one  another.  I  looked  as  earnestly  as  the 
rest,  but,  perhaps,  not  with  so  much  willingness  to  be 
imposed  upon;  and  I  said,  indeed,  that  I  could  see 
nothing  but  a  white  cloud,  bright  on  one  side,  by  the  150 
shining  of  the  sun  upon  the  other  part.  The  woman 
endeavoured  to  show  it  to  me,  but  could  not  make  me 
confess  that  I  saw  it,  which,  indeed,  if  I  had,  I  must 
have  lied :  but  the  woman  turning  to  me  looked  me  in 
the  face  and  fancied  I  laughed,  in  which  her  imagina- 155 


234  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

tion  deceived  her  too,  for  I  really  did  not  laugh,  but  was 
seriously  reflecting  how  the  poor  people  were  terrified  by 
the  force  of  their  own  imagination.  However,  she 
turned  to  me,  called  me  profane  fellow,  and  a  scoffer, 
told  me  that  it  was  a  time  of  God's  anger,  and  dreadful  i6o 
judgments  were  approaching,  and  that  despisers,  such  as 
I,  should  wander  [j/V]  and  perish. 

The  people  about  her  seemed  disgusted  as  well  as  she, 
and  I  found  there  was  no  persuading  them  that  I  did  not 
laugh  at  them,  and  that  I  should  be  rather  mobbed  by  165 
them  than  be  able  to  undeceive  them.  So  I  left  them, 
and  this  appearance  passed  for  as  real  as  the  blazing  star 
itself. 


JONATHAN   SWIFT 

(1667-1745) 

THE   BATTLE   BETWEEN   THE  ANCIENT  AND   THE 
MODERN   BOOKS   IN  SAINT  JAMES'   LIBRARY 

The  Beginning  of  Hostilities 

This  quarrel  first  began,  as  I  have  heard  it  affirmed  by 
an  old  dweller  in  the  neighbourhood,  about  a  small  spot 
of  ground,  lying  and  being  upon  one  of  the  two  tops  of 
the  hill  Parnassus;  the  highest  and  largest  of  which  had, 
it  seems,  been  time  out  of  mind  in  quiet  possession  of  5 
certain  tenants,  called  the  Ancients;  and  the  other  was 
held  by  the  Moderns.  But  these,  disliking  their  present 
station,  sent  certain  ambassadors  to  the  Ancients,  com- 
plaining of  a  great  nuisance;  how  the  height  of  that  part 
of  Parnassus  quite  spoiled  the  prospect  of  theirs,  es-  10 
pecially  towards  the  East;  and  therefore,  to  avoid  a  war, 
offered  them  the  choice  of  this  alternative,  either  that 
the  Ancients  would  please  to  remove  themselves  and  their 
effects  down  to  the  lower  summit,  which  the  Moderns 
would  gracefully  surrender  to  them,  and  advance  into  15 
their  place;  or  else  the  said  Ancients  will  give  leave  to 
the  Moderns  to  come  with  shovels  and  mattocks,  and 
level  the  said  hill  as  low  as  they  shall  think  it  convenient. 
To  which  the  Ancients  made  answer,  how  little  they  ex- 
pected such  a  message  as  this  from  a  colony  whom  they  20 
had  admitted,  out  of  their  own  free  grace,  to  so  near  a 

235 


236  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

neighbourhood.     That,  as  to  their  own  seat,  they  were 
aborigines  of  it,  and  therefore  to  talk  with  them  of  a  re- 
moval or  surrender  was  a  language  they  did  not  under- 
stand.    That,  if  the  height  of  the  hill  on  their  side  25 
shortened  the  prospect  of  the  Moderns,  it  was  a  disad- 
vantage they  could  not  help;  but  desired  them  to  con- 
sider whether  that  injury  (if  it  be  any)  were  not  largely 
recompensed  by  the  shade  and  shelter  it  afforded  them. 
That,  as  to  the  levelling  or  digging  down,  it  was  either  30 
folly  or  ignorance  to  propose  it,  if  they  did  or  did  not 
know  how  that  side  of  the  hill  was  an  entire  rock,  which 
would  break  their  tools  and  hearts,  without  any  damage 
to  itself.     That  they  would  therefore  advise  the  Moderns 
rather  to  raise  their  own  side  of  the  hill  than  dream  of  35 
pulling  down  that  of  the  Ancients;  to  the  former  of 
which  they  would  not  only  give  license,  but  also  largely 
contribute.     All  this  was  rejected  by  the  Moderns  with 
much  indignation,  who  still  insisted  upon  one  of  the  two 
expedients;  and  so  this  difference  broke  out  into  a  long  40 
and  obstinate  war,  maintained  on  the  one  part  by  reso- 
lution, and  by  the  courage  of  certain  leaders  and  allies; 
but,  on  the  other,   by  the  greatness  of  their  number, 
upon  all  defeats  affording  continual  recruits.     In  this 
quarrel  whole  rivulets  of  ink  have  been  exhausted,  and  45 
the  virulence  of  both  parties  enormously  augmented. 
Now,  it  must  be  here  understood,  that  ink  is  the  great 
missive  weapon  in  all  battles  of   the   learned,  which, 
conveyed  through  a  sort  of  engine  called  a  quill,  infinite 
numbers  of  these  are  darted  at  the  enemy  by  the  valiant  50 
on  each  side,  with  equal  skill  and  violence,  as  if  it  were 
an  engagement  of  porcupines.     This  malignant  liquor 
was  compounded,  by  the  engineer  who  invented  it,  of 
two  ingredients  which  are  gall  and  copperas;  by  its  bit- 


SWIFT  237 

teraess  and  venom  to  suit,  in  some  degree,  as  well  as  to  55 
foment,  the  genius  of  the  combatants.     And  as  the  Gre- 
cians, after  an  engagement,  when  they  could  not  agree 
about  the  victory,  were  wont  to  set  up  trophies  on  both 
sides,  the  beaten  party  being  content  to  be  at  the  same 
expense,  to  keep  itself  in  countenance  (a  laudable  and  60 
ancient  custom,  happily  revived  of  late   in  the  art  of 
war),  so  the  learned,  after  a  sharp  and  bloody  dispute, 
do,  on  both  sides,  hang  out  their  trophies  too,  which 
ever  comes  by  the  worst.     These  trophies  have  largely 
inscribed  on  them  the  merits  of  the  cause;  a  full  impar-  65 
tial  account  of  such  a  Battle,  and  how  the  victory  fell 
clearly  to  the  party  that  set  them  up.     They  are  known 
to  the  world  under  several  names;  as  disputes,  argu- 
ments, rejoinders,  brief  considerations,  answers,  replies, 
remarks,   reflections,  objections,   confutations.      For  a  70 
very  few  days  they  are  fixed  up  in  all  public  places,  either 
by  themselves  or  their  representatives,  for  passengers  to 
gaze  at;  whence  the  chief  est  and  largest  are  removed  to 
certain  magazines  they  call  libraries,  there  to  remain  in 
a   quarter   purposely   assigned   them,    and   thenceforth  75 
begin  to  be  called  books  of  controversy. 

In  these  books  is  wonderfully  instilled  and  preserved 
the  spirit  of  each  warrior  while  he  is  alive;  and  after 
his  death  his  soul  transmigrates  thither  to  inform  them. 
This,  at  least,  is  the  more  common  opinion;  but  I  be-  80 
lieve  it  is  with  libraries  as  with  other  cemeteries,  where 
some  philosophers  affirm  that  a  certain  spirit,  which 
they  call  brutum  hominis,  hovers  over  the  monument, 
till  the  body  is  corrupted  and  turns  to  dust  or  to  worms, 
but  then  vanishes  or  dissolves;  so  we  may  say  a  restless  85 
spirit  haunts  over  every  book,  till  dust  or  worms  have 
seized  upon  it  —  which  to  some  may  happen  in  a  few 


238  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

days,  but  to  others  later  —  and  therefore,  books  of  con- 
troversy being,  of  all  others,  haunted  by  the  most  dis- 
orderty  spirits,  have  always  been  confined  in  a  separate  90 
lodge  from  the  rest,  and  for  fear  of  a  mutual  violence 
against  each  other,  it  was  thought  prudent  by  our  ances- 
tors to  bind  them  to  the  peace  with  strong  iron  chains. 
Of  which  invention  the  original  occasion  was  this: 
When  the  works  of  Skotus  first  came  out,  they  were  car-  95 
ried  to  a  certain  library,  and  had  lodgings  appointed 
them;  but  this  author  was  no  sooner  settled  than  he 
went  to  visit  his  master  Aristotle,  and  there  both  con- 
certed together  to  seize  Plato  by  main  force,  and  turn 
him  out  from  his  ancient  station  among  the  divines,  100 
where  he  had  peaceably  dwelt  near  eight  hundred  years. 
The  attempt  succeeded,  and  the  two  usurpers  have 
reigned  ever  since  in  his  stead;  but,  to  maintain  quiet 
for  the  future,  it  was  decreed  that  all  polemics  of  the 
larger  size  should  be  held  fast  with  a  chain.  105 

By  this  expedient,  the  public  peace  of  libraries  might 
certainly  have  been  preserved  if  a  new  species  of  contro- 
versial books  had  not  arose  of  late  years,  instinct  with  a 
more  malignant  spirit,  from  the  war  above  mentioned 
between  the  learned  about  the  higher  summit  of  no 
Parnassus. 

When  these  books  were  first  admitted  into  the  public 
libraries,  I  remember  to  have  said,  upon  occasion,  to 
several  persons  concerned,  how  I  was  sure  they  would 
create  broils  wherever  they  came,  unless  a  world  of  care  115 
were  taken;  and  therefore  I  advised  that  the  champions 
of  each  side  should  be  coupled  together,  or  otherwise 
mixed,  that,  like  the  blending  of  contrary  poisons,  their 
malignity  might  be  employed  among  themselves.  And 
it  seems  I  was  neither  an  ill  prophet  nor  an  ill  counsel- 120 


SWIFT  239 

lor;  for  it  was  nothing  else  but  the  neglect  of  this  caution 
which  gave  occasion  to  the  terrible  fight  that  happened 
on  Friday  last  between  the  Ancient  and  Modern  Books 
in  the  King's  Library.  Now,  because  the  talk  of  this 
battle  is  so  fresh  in  everybody's  mouth,  and  the  expecta- 125 
tion  of  the  town  so  great  to  be  informed  in  the  particu- 
lars, I,  being  possessed  of  all  qualifications  requisite  in 
an  historian,  and  retained  by  neither  party,  have  re- 
solved to  comply  with  the  urgent  importunity  of  my 
friends,  by  writing  down  a  full  impartial  account  thereof.  130 

The  guardian  of  the  Regal  Library,  a  person  of  great 
valour,  but  chiefly  renowned  for  his  humanity,  had  been 
a  fierce  champion  for  the  Moderns,  and,  in  an  engage- 
ment upon  Parnassus,  had  vowed  with  his  own  hands  to 
knock  down  two  of  the  ancient  chiefs  who  guarded  a  135 
small  pass  on  the  superior  rock,  but,  endeavouring  to 
climb  up,  was  cruelly  obstructed  by  his  own  unhappy 
weight  and  tendency  towards  his  centre,  a  quality  to 
which  those  of  the  Modern  party  are  extremely  subject; 
for,  being  lightheaded,  they  have,  in  speculation,  a  140 
wonderful  agility,  and  conceive  nothing  too  high  for 
them  to  mount,  but,  in  reducing  to  practice,  discover 
a  mighty  pressure  about  their  posteriors  and  their  heels. 
Having  thus  failed  in  his  design,  the  disappointed 
champion  bore  a  cruel  rancour  to  the  Ancients,  which  145 
he  resolved  to  gratify  by  showing  all  marks  of  his  favour 
to  the  books  of  their  adversaries,  and  lodging  them  in 
the  fairest  apartments;  when,  at  the  same  time,  what- 
ever book  had  the  boldness  to  own  itself  for  an  advo- 
cate of  the  Ancients  was  buried  alive  in  some  obscure  150 
corner,  and  threatened,  upon  the  least  displeasure,  to 
be  turned  out  of  doors.  Besides,  it  so  happened  that 
about  this  time  there  was  a  strange  confusion  of  place 


240  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

among  all  the  books  in  the  library,  for  which  several 
reasons  were  assigned.  Some  imputed  it  to  a  great  heap  155 
of  learned  dust,  which  a  perverse  wind  blew  off  from  a 
shelf  of  Moderns  into  the  keeper's  eyes.  Others  main- 
tained that,  by  walking  much  in  the  dark  about  the  li- 
brary, he  had  quite  lost  the  situation  of  it  out  of  his 
head;  and  therefore,  in  replacing  his  books,  he  was  apt  160 
to  mistake  and  clap  Descartes  next  to  Aristotle,  poor 
Plato  had  got  between  Hobbes  and  the  Seven  Wise  Mas- 
ters, and  Virgil  was  hemmed  in  with  Dryden  on  one 
side  and  Wither  on  the  other. 

Meanwhile,  those  books  that  were  advocates  for  the  165 
Moderns,  chose  out  one  from  among  them  to  make  a 
progress  through  the  whole  library,  examine  the  number 
and  strength  of  their  party,  and  concert  their  affairs. 
This  messenger  performed  all  things  very  industriously, 
and  brought  back  with  him  a  list  of  their  forces,  in  all  170 
fifty  thousand,  consisting  chiefly  of  light-horse,  heavy- 
armed  foot,  and  mercenaries;  whereof  the  foot  were  in 
general  but  sorrily  armed  and  worse  clad;  their  horses 
large,  but  extremely  out  of  case  and  heart;  however, 
some  few,  by  trading  among  the  Ancients,  had  furnished  175 
themselves  tolerable  enough. 

While  things  were  in  this  ferment,  discord  grew  ex- 
tremely high;  hot  words  passed  on  both  sides,  and  ill 
blood  was  plentifully  bred.  Here  a  solitary  Ancient, 
squeezed  up  among  a  whole  shelf  of  Moderns,  offered  180 
fairly  to  dispute  the  case,  and  to  prove  by  manifest 
reason  that  the  priority  was  due  to  them  from  long  pos- 
session, and  in  regard  of  their  prudence,  antiquity,  and, 
above  all,  their  great  merits  toward  the  Moderns.  But 
these  denied  the  premises,  and  seemed  very  much  to  185 
wonder  how  the  Ancients  could  pretend  to  insist  upon 


SWIFT  241 

their  antiquity,  when  it  was  so  plain  (if  they  went  to 
that)  that  the  Moderns  were  much  the  more  ancient  of 
the  two.  As  for  any  obligations  they  owed  to  the 
Ancients,  they  renounced  them  all.  "It  is  true,"  said  190 
they,  "  we  are  informed  some  few  of  our  party  have  been 
so  mean  as  to  borrow  their  subsistence  from  you,  but 
the  rest,  infinitely  the  greater  number  (and  especially 
we  French  and  English),  were  so  far  from  stooping  to 
so  base  an  example,  that  there  never  passed,  till  this  195 
very  hour,  six  words  between  us.  For  our  horses  were 
of  our  own  breeding,  our  arms  of  our  own  forging,  and 
our  clothes  of  our  own  cutting  out  and  sewing."  Plato 
was  by  chance  upon  the  next  shelf,  and  observing  those 
that  spoke  to  be  in  the  ragged  plight  mentioned  a  while  200 
ago,  their  jades  lean  and  foundered,  their  weapons  of 
rotten  wood,  their  armour  rusty,  and  nothing  but  rags 
underneath,  he  laughed  loud,  and  in  his  pleasant  way 
swore  he  believed  them. 

Now,  the  Moderns  had  not  proceeded  in  their  late  205 
negociation  with  secrecy  enough  to  escape  the  notice  of 
the  enemy.     For  those  advocates  who  had  begun  the 
quarrel,  by  setting  first  on  foot  the  dispute  of  prece- 
dency, talked  so  loud  of  coming  to  a  battle,  that  Sir 
William  Temple  happened  to  overhear  them,  and  gave  210 
immediate  intelligence  to  the  Ancients,  who  thereupon 
drew  up  their  scattered  troops  together,  resolving  to  act 
upon  the  defensive;  upon  which,  several  of  the  Mod- 
erns fled  over  to  their  party,  and  among  the  rest  Temple 
himself.     This  Temple,  having  been  educated  and  long  215 
conversed  among  the  Ancients,  was,  of  all  the  Moderns, 
their   greatest    favourite,    and    became    their    greatest 
champion. 

R 


242  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

GULLIVER'S   TRAVELS 

The  Academy  of  Lagado 

I  WAS  received  very  kindly  by  the  warden,  and  went 
for  many  days  to  the  academy.  Every  room  has  in  it 
one  or  more  projectors,  and  I  believe  I  could  not  be  in 
fewer  than  five  hundred  rooms.  The  first  man  I  saw  was 
of  a  meagre  aspect,  with  sooty  hands  and  face,  his  hair  5 
and  beard  long,  ragged,  and  singed  in  several  places. 
His  clothes,  shirt,  and  skin  were  all  of  the  same  color. 
He  had  been  eight  years  upon  a  project  for  extracting 
sunbeams  out  of  cucumbers,  which  were  to  be  put  in 
vials  hermetically  sealed,  and  let  out  to  warm  the  air  in  10 
raw,  inclement  summers.  He  told  me  he  did  not  doubt 
in  eight  years  more  that  he  should  be  able  to  supply  the 
governor's  gardens  with  sunshine  at  a  reasonable  rate; 
but  he  complained  that  his  stock  was  low,  and  entreated 
me  to  give  him  something  as  an  encouragement  to  inge-  15 
nuity,  especially  since  this  had  been  a  very  dear  season 
for  cucumbers.  I  made  him  a  small  present,  for  my 
lord  had  furnished  me  with  money  on  purpose,  because 
he  knew  their  practice  of  begging  from  all  who  go  to 
see  them.  20 

I  saw  another  at  work  to  calcine  ice  into  gunpowder, 
who  likewise  showed  me  a  treatise  he  had  written  con- 
cerning the  malleability  of  fire,  which  he  intended  to 
publish. 

There  was  a  most  ingenious  architect,  who  had  con-  25 
trived  a  new  method  of  building  houses,  by  beginning 
at  the  roof  and  working  downward  to  the  foundation; 
which  he  justified  to  me  by  the  like  practice  of  those 
two  prudent  insects,  the  bee  and  the  spider. 


SWIFT  243 

In  another  department,  I  was  highly  pleased  with  a  30 
projector  who  had   found  a  device   of    ploughing   the 
ground  with  hogs,  to  save  the  charges  of  ploughs,  cattle, 
and  labor.     The  method  is  this :  In  an  acre  of  ground 
you  bury,  at  six  inches  distance,  and  eight  deep,  a  quan- 
tity of  acorns,  dates,  chestnuts,  and  other  mast  or  vege-  35 
tables,  whereof  these  animals  are  fondest.     Then  you 
drive  six  hundred  or  more  of  them  into  the  field,  where 
in  a  few  days  they  will  root  up  the  whole  ground   in 
search  of  their  food,  and  make  it  fit  for  sowing.     It  is 
true,    upon   experiment,    they   found   the    charge    and  40 
trouble  very  great,   and   they   had   little    or   no   crop. 
However,  it  is  not  doubted  that  this  invention  may  be 
capable  of  great  improvement. 

There  was  an  astronomer  who  had  undertaken  to  place 
a  sundial  upon  the  great  weathercock  in  the  town-house  45 
by  adjusting  the  annual  and  diurnal  motions  of  the  earth 
and  sun  so  as  to  answer  and  coincide  with  all  accidental 
turnings  of  the  wind.  I  visited  many  other  apartments, 
but  shall  not  trouble  my  readers  with  all  the  curiosities 
I  observed,  being  studious  of  brevity.  50 

We  crossed  a  walk  to  the  other  part  of  the  academy, 
where,  as  I  have  already  said,  the  projectors  in  specula- 
tive learning  resided.  The  first  professor  I  saw  was  in 
a  very  large  room,  with  forty  pupils  about  him.  After 
salutation,  observing  me  to  look  earnestly  upon  a  frame  55 
.which  took  up  the  greatest  part  of  both  the  length  and 
breadth  of  the  room,  he  said  perhaps  I  might  wonder  to 
see  him  employed  in  a  project  for  improving  specula- 
tive knowledge  by  practical  mechanical  operations;  but 
the  world  would  soon  be  sensible  of  its  usefulness,  and  60 
he  flattered  himself  that  a  more  noble,  exalted  thought 
never   sprang  in  any  other   man's   head.      Every  one 


244  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

knows  how  laborious  the  usual  method  is  of  attaining  to 
arts  and  sciences;  whereas,  by  his  contrivance,  the  most 
ignorant  person,  at  a  reasonable  charge,  and  with  a  little  .65 
bodily  labor,  may  write  books  in  philosophy,  poetry, 
politics,  laws,  mathematics,  and  theology,  without  the 
least  assistance  from  genius  or  study.     He  then  led  me 
to  the  frame,  about  the  sides  whereof  all  his  pupils  stood 
in   ranks.     It  was   twenty  feet  square,   placed   in    the  70 
middle  of  the  room.     The  superficies  was  composed  of 
several  bits  of  wood,  about  the  bigness  of  a  die,  but 
some  larger  than  others.     They  were  all  linked  together 
by  slender  wires.     These  bits  of  wood  were  covered,  on 
every  square,  with  papers  pasted  on  them;  and  on  these  75 
papers  were  written  all  the  words  of  their  language,  in 
their  several  moods,  tenses,  and  declensions,  but  without 
any  order.     The  professor  then  desired  me  to  observe, 
for  he  was  going  to  set  his  engine  at  work.     The  pupils, 
at  his  command,  took  each  of  them   hold  of  an   iron  80 
handle,  whereof  there  were  forty  fixed  around  the  edges 
of  the  frame;  and  giving  them  a  sudden  turn,  the  whole 
disposition  of   the  words   was   entirely  changed.     He 
then  commanded  six-and-thirty  of  the  lads  to  read  the 
several  lines  softly,  as  they  appeared  upon  the  frame;  85 
and  where  they  found  three  or  four  words  together  that 
might  make  part  of  a  sentence,  they  dictated  to  the  four 
remaining  boys,  who  were  scribes.     This  work  was  re- 
peated three  or  four  times,  and  at  every  turn  the  engine 
was  so  contrived  that  the  words  shifted  into  new  places  90 
as  the  square  bits  of  wood  moved  upside  down. 

Six  hours  a  day  the  young  students  were  employed  in 
this  labor;  and  the  professor  showed  me  several  volumes 
in  large  folio,  already  collected,  of  broken  sentences, 
which  he  intended  to  piece  together,  and    out  of  those  95 


SWIFT  245 

rich  materials  to  give  the  world  a  complete  body  of  all 
arts  and  sciences;  which,  however,  might  be  still  im- 
proved, and  much  expedited,  if  the  public  would  raise 
a  fund  for  making  and  employing  five  hundred  such 
frames  in  Lagado,  and  oblige  the  managers  to  contribute  100 
in  common  their  several  collections.  He  assured  me 
that  this  invention  had  employed  all  his  thoughts  from 
his  youth;  that  he  had  emptied  the  whole  vocabulary 
into  his  frame,  and  made  the  strictest  computation  of 
the  general  proportion  there  is  in  books  between  the  105 
number  of  particles,  nouns,  and  verbs,  and  other  parts 
of  speech.   .  .   . 

In  the  school  of  political  projectors,  I  was  but  ill  en- 
tertained; the  professors  appearing,  in  my  judgment, 
wholly  out  of  their  senses,  which  is  a  scene  that  never  no 
fails  to  make  me  melancholy.  These  unhappy  people 
were  proposing  schemes  for  persuading  monarchs  to 
choose  favorites  upon  the  score  of  their  wisdom,  ca- 
pacity, and  virtue;  of  teaching  ministers  to  consult  the 
public  good;  of  rewarding  merit,  great  abilities,  and  115 
eminent  services;  of  instructing  princes  to  know  their 
true  interest,  by  placing  it  on  the  same  foundation  with 
that  of  their  people;  of  choosing  for  employments  per- 
sons qualified  to  exercise  them;  with  many  other  wild, 
impossible  chimeras  that  never  entered  before  into  the  120 
heart  of  man  to  conceive,  and  confirmed  in  me  the  old 
observation,  "that  there  is  nothing  so  extravagant  and 
irrational  which  some  philosophers  have  not  maintained 
for  truth." 


JOSEPH   ADDISON 

(1673-1719) 

THE   SPECTATOR 
No.  112.     Sunday  in  the  Country :  Sir  Roger  at  Church 

I  AM  always  very  well  pleased  with  a  country  Sunday, 
and  think,  if  keeping  holy  the  seventh  day  were  only  a 
human  institution,  it  would  be  the  best  method  that  could 
have  been  thought  of  for  the  polishing  and  civilizing  of 
mankind.  It  is  certain  the  country  people  would  soon  5 
degenerate  into  a  kind  of  savages  and  barbarians,  were 
there  not  such  frequent  returns  of  a  stated  time,  in  which 
the  whole  village  meet  together  with  their  best  faces, 
and  in  their  cleanliest  habits,  to  converse  with  one 
another  upon  indifferent  subjects,  hear  their  duties  10 
explained  to  them,  and  join  together  in  adoration  of 
the  Supreme  Being.  Sunday  clears  away  the  rust  of  the 
whole  week,  not  only  as  it  refreshes  in  their  minds  the 
notions  of  religion,  but  as  it  puts  both  the  sexes  upon 
appearing  in  their  most  agreeable  forms,  and  exerting  15 
all  such  qualities  as  are  apt  to  give  them  a  figure  in  the 
eye  of  the  village.  A  country  fellow  distinguishes  him- 
self as  much  in  the  churchyard,  as  a  citizen  does  upon 
the  'Change,  the  whole  parish  politics  being  generally 
discussed  in  that  place  either  after  sermon  or  before  the  20 
bell  rings. 

246 


ADDISON  247 

My  friend  Sir  Roger,  being  a  good  churchman,  has 
beautified  the  inside  of  his  church  with  several  texts  of 
his  own  choosing.  He  has  likewise  given  a  handsome 
pulpit-cloth,  and  railed  in  the  communion-table  at  his  25 
own  expense.  He  has  often  told  me,  that  at  his  coming 
to  his  estate  he  found  his  parishioners  very  irregular; 
and  that  in  order  to  make  them  kneel  and  join  in  the 
responses,  he  gave  every  one  of  them  a  hassock  and  a 
common-prayer-book;  and  at  the  same  time  employed  30 
an  itinerant  singing  master,  who  goes  about  the  country 
for  that  purpose,  to  instruct  them  rightly  in  the  tunes  of 
the  Psalms;  upon  which  they  now  very  much  value  them- 
selves, and  indeed  outdo  most  of  the  country  churches 
that  I  have  ever  heard.  35 

As  Sir  Roger  is  landlord  to  the  whole  congregation, 
he  keeps  them  in  very  good  order,  and  will  suffer  nobody 
to  sleep  in  it  besides  himself;  for  if  by  chance  he  has 
been  surprised  into  a  short  nap  at  sermon,  upon  recov- 
ering out  of  it  he  stands  up  and  looks  about  him,  and  if  40 
he  sees  anybody  else  nodding,  either  wakes  them  him- 
self, or  sends  his  servant  to  them.  Several  other  of  the 
old  knight's  particularities  break  out  upon  these  occa- 
sions. Sometimes  he  will  be  lengthening  out  a  verse  in 
the  singing  Psalms  half  a  minute  after  the  rest  of  the  45 
congregation  have  done  with  it;  sometimes,  when  he  is 
pleased  with  the  matter  of  his  devotion,  he  pronounces 
amen  three  or  four  times  to  the  same  prayer;  and  some- 
times stands  up  when  everybody  else  is  upon  their  knees, 
to  count  the  congregation,  or  see  if  any  of  his  tenants  50 
are  missing. 

I  was  yesterday  very  much  surprised  to  hear  my  old 
friend,  in  the  midst  of  the  service,  calling  out  to  one 
John  Matthews  to  mind  what  he  was  about,  and  not  to 


248  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

disturb  the  congregation.  This  John  Matthews  it  seems  55 
is  remarkable  for  being  an  idle  fellow,  and  at  that  time 
was  kicking  his  heels  for  his  diversion.  This  authority 
of  the  knight,  though  exerted  in  that  odd  manner  which 
accompanies  him  in  all  circumstances  of  life,  has  a  very 
good  effect  upon  the  parish,  who  are  not  polite  enough  60 
to  see  any  thing  ridiculous  in  his  behaviour;  besides 
that  the  general  good  sense  and  worthiness  of  his  char- 
acter make  his  friends  observe  these  little  singularities  as 
foils  that  rather  set  off  than  blemish  his  good  qualities. 

As  soon  as  the  sermon  is  finished,  nobody  presumes  65 
to  stir  till  Sir  Roger  is  gone  out  of  the  church.  The 
knight  walks  down  from  his  seat  in  the  chancel  between 
a  double  row  of  his  tenants,  that  stand  bowing  to  him  on 
each  side;  and  every  now  and  then  inquires  how  such  a 
one's  wife,  or  mother,  or  son,  or  father  do,  whom  he  70 
does  not  see  at  church;  which  is  understood  as  a  secret 
reprimand  to  the  person  that  is  absent. 

The  chaplain  has  often  told  me,  that  upon  a  catechis- 
ing day,  when  Sir  Roger  has  been  pleased  with  a  boy 
that  answers  well,  he  has  ordered  a  bible  to  be  given  him  75 
next  day  for  his  encouragement;  and  sometimes  accom- 
panies it  with  a  flitch  of  bacon  to  his  mother.  Sir  Roger 
has  likewise  added  five  pounds  a  year  to  the  clerk's 
place;  and  that  he  may  encourage  the  young  fellows  to 
make  themselves  perfect  in  the  church  service,  has  prom-  80 
ised,  upon  the  death  of  the  present  incumbent,  who  is 
very  old,  to  bestow  it  according  to  merit. 

The  fair  understanding  between  Sir  Roger  and  his 
chaplain,  and  their  mutual  concurrence  in  doing  good, 
is  the  more  remarkable,  because  the  very  next  village  is  85 
famous  for  the  differences  and  contentions  that  rise  be- 
tween the  parson  and  the  'squire,  who  live   in  a  per- 


ADDTSON  249 

petual  state  of  war.  The  parson  is  always  preaching  at 
the  'squire;  and  the  'squire,  to  be  revenged  on  the 
parson,  never  comes  to  church.  90 

The  'squire  has  made  all  his  tenants  atheists  and  tithe- 
stealers;  while  the  parson  instructs  them  every  Sunday 
in  the  dignity  of  his  order,  and  insinuates  to  them,  in 
almost  every  sermon,  that  he  is  a  better  man  than  his 
patron.  In  short,  matters  are  come  to  such  an  extremity,  95 
that  the  'squire  has  not  said  his  prayers  either  in  public 
or  private  this  half  year;  and  that  the  parson  threatens 
him,  if  he  does  not  mend  his  manners,  to  pray  for  him 
in  the  face  of  the  whole  congregation. 

Feuds  of  this  nature,  though  too  frequent  in  the  coun- 100 
try,  are  very  fatal  to  the  ordinary  people;  who  are  so 
used  to  be  dazzled  with  riches,  that  they  pay  as  much 
deference  to  the  understanding  of  a  man  of  an  estate, 
as  of  a  man  of  learning;  and  are  very  hardly  brought  to 
regard  any  truth,  how  important  soever  it  may  be,  that  105 
is  preached  to  them,  when  they  know  there  are  several 
men  of  five  hundred  a  year  who  do  not  believe  it. 

No.  159.      TJie  Vision  of  Mirzah 

When  I  was  at  Grand  Cairo  I  picked  up  several  ori- 
ental manuscripts,  which  I  have  still  by  me.  Among 
others  I  met  with  one  entitled,  the  Visions  of  Mirzah, 
which  I  have  read  over  with  great  pleasure.  I  intend 
to  give  it  to  the  public  when  I  have  no  other  entertain-  5 
ment  for  them;  and  shall  begin  with  the  first  vision, 
which  I  have  translated  word  for  word  as  follows : 

"  On  the  fifth  day  of  the  moon,  which  according  to  the 
custom  of  my  forefathers  I  always  kept  holy,  after  hav- 
ing washed  myself,  and  offered  up  ray  morning  devo-  10 


250  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

tions,  I  ascended  the  high  hills  of  Bagdat,  in  order  to 
pass  the  rest  of  the  day  in  meditation  and  prayer.  As 
I  was  here  airing  myself  on  the  tops  of  the  mountains,  I 
fell  into  a  profound  contemplation  on  the  vanity  of 
human  life;  and  passing  from  one  thought  to  another,  15 
'surely,'  said  I,  'man  is  but  a  shadow  and  life  a  dream.' 
Whilst  I  was  thus  musing,  I  cast  my  eyes  towards  the 
summit  of  a  rock  that  was  not  far  from  me,  where  1  dis- 
covered one  in  the  habit  of  a  shepherd,  with  a  musical 
instrument  in  his  hand.  As  I  looked  upon  him  he  ap-  20 
plied  it  to  his  lips,  and  began  to  play  upon  it.  The 
sound  of  it  was  exceeding  sweet,  and  wrought  into  a 
variety  of  tunes  that  were  inexpressibly  melodious,  and 
altogether  different  from  anything  I  had  ever  heard. 
They  put  me  in  mind  of  those  heavenly  airs  that  are  25 
played  to  the  departed  souls  of  good  men  upon  their  first 
arrival  in  paradise,  to  wear  out  the  impressions  of  their 
last  agonies,  and  qualify  them  for  the  pleasures  of  that 
happy  place.     My  heart  melted  away  in  secret  raptures. 

"  I  had  been  often  told  that  the  rock  before  me  was  30 
the  haunt  of  a  genius;  and  that  several  had  been  enter- 
tained with  music  who  had  passed  by  it,  but  never  heard 
that  the  musician  had  before  made  himself  visible.    When 
he  had  raised  my  thoughts,  by  those  transporting  airs 
which  he  played,  to  taste  the  pleasures  of  his  conversa-  35 
tion,  as  I  looked  upon  him  like  one  astonished,  he  beck- 
oned to  me,  and  by  the  waving  of  his  hand  directed  me 
to  approach  the  place  where  he  sat.     I  drew  near  with 
that   reverence  which   is  due  to  a  superior  nature;  and 
as  my  heart  was  entirely  subdued  by  the  captivating  40 
strains  I  had  heard,  I  fell  down  at  his  feet  and  wept. 
The  genius  smiled  upon  me  with  a  look  of  compassion 
and  affability  that  familiarized  him  to  my  imagination, 


ADDISON  251 

and  at  once  dispelled  all  the  fears  and  apprehensions 
with  which  I  approached  him.     He  lifted  me  from  the  45 
ground,  and  taking  me  by  the  hand,  'Mirzah, '  said  he, 
'I  have  heard  thee  in  thy  soliloquies,  follow  me.' 

"He  then  led  me  to  the  highest  pinnacle  of  the  rock, 
and  placed  me  on  the  top  of  it.     'Cast  thy  eyes  east- 
ward,' said  he,  'and  tell  me  what  thou  seest.'     'I  see,'   50 
said  I,  'a  huge  valley  and  a  prodigious  tide  of  water  roll- 
ing through  it.'     'The  valley  that  thou  seest,'  said  he, 
'  is  the  vale  of  misery,  and  the  tide  of  water  that  thou 
seest  is  part  of  the  great  tide  of  eternity.'    *  What  is  the 
reason,'  said  I,  'that  the  tide  I  see  rises  out  of  a  thick  55 
mist  at  one  end,  and  again  loses  itself  in  a  thick  mist  at 
the  other?  '     'What  thou  seest,'  said  he,  'is  that  portion 
of  eternity  which  is  called  time,  measured  out  by  the 
sun,  and  reaching  from  the  beginning  of  the  world  to  its 
consummation.     Examine  now,'  said  he,  'this  sea  that  60 
is  thus  bounded  with  darkness  at  both  ends,  and  tell  me 
what  thou  discoverest  in  it.'     'I  see  abridge,'  said  I, 
'standing  in  the  midst  of  the  tide.'     'The  bridge  thou 
seest,'  said  he,  'is  human  life;  consider  it  attentively.' 
Upon  a  more  leisurely  survey  of  it,  I  found  that  it  con-  65 
sisted  of  threescore  and  ten  entire  arches,  with  several 
broken  arches,  which  added  to  those  that  were  entire, 
made  up  the  number  about  an  hundred.     As  I  was  count- 
ing the  arches  the  genius  told  me  that  this  bridge  con- 
sisted at  first  of  a  thousand  arches;  but  that  a  great  flood  70 
swept  away  the  rest,  and  left  the  bridge  in  the  ruinous 
condition  I  now  beheld  it.     'But  tell  me,  further,'  said 
he,  'what  thou  discoverest  on  it.'     'I  see  multitudes  of 
people  passing  over  it,'  said  I,  'and  a  black  cloud  hang- 
ing on  each  end  of  it.'     As  I  looked  more  attentively,  I  75 
saw  several   of    the   passengers   dropping   through   the 


252  FHOM   CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

bridge,  into  the  great  tide  that  flowed  underneath  it; 
and  upon  further  examination,  perceived  there  were 
innumerable  trap-doors  that  lay  concealed  in  the  bridge, 
which  the  passengers  no  sooner  trod  upon,  but  they  fell  80 
through  them  into  the  tide  and  immediately  disappeared. 
These  hidden  pitfalls  were  set  very  thick  at  the  entrance 
of  the  bridge,  so  that  throngs  of  people  no  sooner  broke 
through  the  cloud,  but  many  of  them  fell  into  them. 
They  grew  thinner  towards  the  middle,  but  multiplied  85 
and  lay  closer  together  towards  the  end  of  the  arches 
that  were  entire. 

"There  were  indeed  some  persons,  but  their  number 
was  very  small,  that  continued  a  kind  of  hobbling  march 
on  the  broken  arches,  but  fell  through  one  after  another,  90 
being  quite  tired  and  spent  with  so  long  a  walk. 

"  I  passed  some  time  in  the  contemplation  of  this  won- 
derful structure,  and  the  great  variety  of  objects  which  it 
presented.  My  heart  was  filled  with  a  deep  melancholy 
to  see  several  dropping  unexpectedly  in  the  midst  of  95 
mirth  and  jollity,  and  catching  at  everything  that  stood 
by  them  to  save  themselves.  Some  were  looking  up 
towards  the  heavens  in  a  thoughtful  posture,  and  in  the 
midst  of  a  speculation  stumbled  and  fell  out  of  sight. 
Multitudes  were  very  busy  in  the  pursuit  of  baubles  that  100 
glittered  in  their  eyes  and  danced  before  them,  but  often 
when  they  thought  themselves  within  the  reach  of  them, 
their  footing  failed  and  down  they  sunk.  In  this  confu- 
sion of  objects,  I  observed  some  with  scimitars  in  their 
hands,  and  others  with  lancets,  who  ran  to  and  fro  upon  105 
the  bridge,  thrusting  several  persons  upon  trap-doors 
which  did  not  seem  to  lie  in  their  way,  and  which  they 
might  have  escaped,  had  they  not  been  thus  forced  upon 
them. 


ADDISOM  253 

"The  genius  seeing  me  indulge  myself  in  this  melan-  no 
choly  prospect,  told  rae  I  had  dwelt  long  enough  upon 
it:  'take  thine  eyes  off  the  bridge,'  said  he,  'and  tell  me 
if  thou  yet  seest  anything  thou  dost  not  comprehend.' 
Upon  looking  up,  'what   mean,'   said   I,  'those   great 
flights  of  birds  that  are  perpetually  hovering  about  the  115 
bridge,  and  settling  upon  it  from  time  to  time?     I  see 
vultures,  harpies,  ravens,  cormorants,  and  among  many 
other  feathered  creatures,   several  little  winged  boys, 
that  perch  in  great  numbers  upon  the  middle  arches.' 
'These,'  said  the  genius,   'are  envy,  avarice,  supersti- 120 
tion,  despair,  love,  with  the  like  cares  and  passions,  that 
infest  human  life.' 

"I  here  fetched  a  deep  sigh;  'alas,'  said  I,  'man  was 
made   in  vain !     How  is  he  given  away  to  misery  and 
mortality!  tortured  in  life,  and  swallowed  up  in  death! '  125 
The  genius,  being  moved  with  compassion  towards  me, 
bid  me  quit  so  uncomfortable  a  prospect.     'Look  no 
more, '  said  he,  'on  man  in  the  first  stage  of  his  existence, 
in  his  setting  out  for  eternity;  but  cast  thine  eye  on  that 
thick  mist  into  which  the  tide  bears  the  several  genera- 130 
tions  of  mortals  that  fall  into  it.'     I  directed  my  sight 
as  I  was  ordered,  and  (whether  or  no  the  good  genius 
strengthened  it  with  any  supernatural  force,  or  dissi- 
pated part  of  the  mist  that  was  before  too  thick  for  the 
eye  to  penetrate)  I  saw  the  valley  opening  at  the  farther  135 
end,  and  spreading  forth  into  an  immense  ocean,  that 
had  a  huge  rock  of  adamant  running  through  the  midst 
of  it,  and  dividing  it  into  two  equal  parts.     The  clouds 
still  rested  on  one  half  of  it,  insomuch  that  I  could  dis- 
cover nothing  in  it :  but  the  other  appeared  to  me  a  vast  140 
ocean  planted  with  innumerable  islands,  that  were  cov- 
ered with  fruits  and  flowers,  and  interwoven  with  a  thou- 


254  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

sand  little  shining  seas  that  ran  among  them.  I  could 
see  persons  dressed  in  glorious  habits  with  garlands  upon 
their  heads,  passing  among  the  trees,  lying  down  by  the  145 
sides  of  the  fountains,  or  resting  on  beds  of  flowers;  and 
could  hear  a  confused  harmony  of  singing  birds,  falling 
waters,  human  voices,  and  musical  instruments.  Glad- 
ness grew  in  me  upon  the  discovery  of  so  delightful  a 
scene.  I  wished  for  the  wings  of  an  eagle,  that  I  might  150 
fly  away  to  those  happy  seats;  but  the  genius  told  me 
there  was  no  passage  to  them,  except  through  the  gates 
of  death  that  I  saw  opening  every  moment  upon  the 
bridge.  'The  islands,'  said  he,  'that  lie  so  fresh  and 
green  before  thee,  and  with  which  the  whole  face  of  the  155 
ocean  appears  spotted  as  far  as  thou  canst  see,  are  more 
in  number  than  the  sands  on  the  sea-shore;  there  are 
myriads  of  islands  behind  those  which  thou  here  dis- 
coverest,  reaching  farther  than  thine  eye,  or  even  thine 
imagination,  can  extend  itself.  These  are  the  mansions  160 
of  good  men  after  death,  who,  according  to  the  degree 
and  kinds  of  virtue  in  which  they  excelled,  are  distributed 
among  these  several  islands,  which  abound  with  pleas- 
ures of  different  kinds  and  degrees,  suitable  to  the  rel- 
ishes and  perfections  of  those  who  are  settled  in  them :  165 
every  island  is  a  paradise,  accommodated  to  its  respective 
inhabitants.  Are  not  these,  O  Mirzah,  habitations  worth 
contending  for?  Does  life  appear  miserable,  that  gives 
thee  opportunities  of  earning  such  a  reward?  Is  death 
to  be  feared,  that  will  convey  thee  to  so  happy  an  exist- 170 
ence?  Think  not  man  was  made  in  vain,  who  has  such 
an  eternity  reserved  for  him.'  I  gazed  with  inexpres- 
sible pleasure  on  these  happy  islands.  At  length,  said 
I,  'show  me  now,  I  beseech  thee,  the  secrets  that  lie  hid 
under  those  dark  clouds  which  cover  the  ocean  on  the  175 


ADDISON  255 

other  side  of  the  rock  of  adamant. '  The  genius  making 
me  no  answer,  I  turned  about  to  address  myself  to  him 
a  second  time,  but  I  found  that  he  had  left  me,  I  then 
turned  again  to  the  vision  which  I  had  been  so  long  con- 
templating, but,  instead  of  the  rolling  tide,  the  arched  180 
bridge,  and  the  happy  islands,  I  saw  nothing  but  the  long 
hollow  valley  of  Bagdat,  with  oxen,  sheep,  and  camels 
grazing  upon  the  sides  of  it." 

No.  565.     Contemplation  of  the  Divine  Perfections  sug- 
gested by  the  Sky  at  Night 

I  was  yesterday  about  sun-set  walking  in  the  open 
fields,  till  the  night  insensibly  fell  upon  me.  I  at  first 
amused  myself  with  all  the  richness  and  variety  of  colors, 
which  appeared  in  the  western  parts  of  heaven :  in  pro- 
portion as  they  faded  away  and  went  out,  several  stars  5 
and  planets  appeared  one  after  another,  till  the  whole 
firmament  was  in  a  glow.  The  blueness  of  the  ether  was 
exceedingly  heightened  and  enlivened  by  the  season  of 
the  year,  and  by  the  rays  of  all  those  luminaries  that 
passed  through  it.  The  galaxy  appeared  in  its  most  10 
beautiful  white.  To  complete  the  scene,  the  full  moon 
rose  at  length  in  that  clouded  majesty  which  Milton 
takes  notice  of,  and  opened  to  the  eye  a  new  picture 
of  nature,  which  was  more  finely  shaded,  and  disposed 
among  softer  lights,  than  that  which  the  sun  had  before  15 
discovered  to  us. 

As  I  was  surveying  the  moon  walking  in  her  bright- 
ness, and  taking  her  progress  among  the  constellations, 
a  thought  rose  in  me  which  I  believe  very  often  per- 
plexes and  disturbs  men  of  serious  and  contemplative  20 
natures.     David  himself  fell  into  it  in  that  reflection, 


.256  FROM  CHAUCER   TO  ARNOLD 

"  When  I  consider  the  heavens,  the  work  of  thy  fingers, 
the  moon  and  the  stars  which  thou  has  ordained;  what 
is  man,  that  thou  art  mindful  of  him,  and  the  son  of 
man  that  thou  regardest  him?  "  In  the  same  manner,  25 
when  I  considered  that  infinite  host  of  stars,  or,  to  speak 
more  philosophically,  of  suns,  which  were  then  shining 
upon  me,  with  those  innumerable  sets  of  planets  or 
worlds,  which  were  moving  round  their  respective  suns; 
when  I  still  enlarged  the  idea,  and  supposed  another  30 
heaven  of  suns  and  worlds  rising  still  above  this  which 
we  discovered,  and  these  still  enlightened  by  a  superior 
firmament  of  luminaries,  which  are  planted  at  so  great  a 
distance  that  they  may  appear  to  the  inhabitants  of  the 
former  as  the  stars  to  us;  in  short,  whilst  I  pursued  this  35 
thought,  I  could  not  but  reflect  on  that  little  insignifi- 
cant figure  which  I  myself  bore  amidst  the  immensity  of 
God's  works. 

Were  the  sun,  which  enlightens  this  part  of  the  crea- 
tion, with  all  the  host  of  planetary  worlds  that  move  40 
about  him,  utterly  extinguished  and  annihilated,  they 
would  not  be  missed,  more  than  a  grain  of  sand  upon  the 
sea-shore.  The  space  they  possess  is  so  exceedingly 
little  in  comparison  of  the  whole,  that  it  would  scarce 
make  a  blank  in  the  creation.  The  chasm  would  be  45 
imperceptible  to  an  eye,  that  could  take  in  the  whole 
compass  of  nature,  and  pass  from  one  end  of  the  crea- 
tion to  the  other;  as  it  is  possible  there  may  be  such  a 
sense  in  ourselves  hereafter,  or  in  creatures  which  are  at 
present  more  exalted  than  ourselves.  We  see  many  50 
stars  by  the  help  of  glasses,  which  we  do  not  discover 
with  our  naked  eyes;  and  the  finer  our  telescopes  are, 
the  more  still  are  our  discoveries.  Huygenius  carries 
this  thought  so  far,  that  he  does  not  think  it  impossible 


ADDISON  257 

there  may  be  stars  whose  light  is  not  yet  travelled  down  55 
to  us,  since  their  first  creation.  There  is  no  question 
but  the  universe  has  certain  bounds  set  to  it;  but  when 
we  consider  that  it  is  the  work  of  infinite  power, 
prompted  by  infinite  goodness,  with  an  infinite  space  to 
exert  itself  in,  how  can  our  imagination  set  any  bounds  60 
to  it? 

To  return  therefore  to  my  first  thought,  I  could  not 
but  look  upon  myself  with  secret  horror,  as  a  being  that 
was  not  worth  the  smallest  regard  of  one  who  had  so 
great  a  work  under  his  care  and  superintendency.  I  was  65 
afraid  of  being  overlooked  amidst  the  immensity  of 
nature,  and  lost  among  that  infinite  variety  of  creatures, 
which  in  all  probability  swarm  through  all  these  immeas- 
urable regions  of  matter. 

In   order   to   recover   myself    from    this    mortifying  70 
thought,  I  considered  that  it  took  its  rise  from  those 
narrow  conceptions,  which  we  are  apt  to  entertain  of 
the  divine  nature.     We  ourselves  cannot  attend  to  many 
different  objects  at  the  same  time.     If  we  are  careful  to 
inspect  some  things,  we  must  of  course  neglect  others.   75 
This  imperfection  which  we  observe  in  ourselves,  is  an 
imperfection  that  cleaves  in  some  degree  to  creatures  of 
the  highest  capacities,  as  they  are  creatures,  that  is, 
beings  of  finite  and  limited  natures.     The  presence  of 
every  created  being  is  confined  to  a  certain  measure  of  80 
space,  and  consequently  his  observation  is  stinted  to  a 
certain  number  of  objects.      The  sphere  in  which  we 
move  and  act  and  understand,  is  of  a  wider  circumfer- 
ence to  one  creature  than  another,  according  as  we  rise 
one  above  another  in  the  scale  of  existence.     But  the  85 
widest  of  these  our  spheres  has  its  circumference.    When 
therefore  we  reflect  on  the  divine  nature,  we  are  so  used 
s 


258  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  AR.YOLD 

and  accustomed  to  this  imperfection  in  oursehes,  that 
we  cannot  forbear  in  some  measure  ascribing  it  to  him 
in  whom  there  is  no  shadow  of  imperfection.  Our  reason  90 
indeed  assures  us  that  his  attributes  are  infinite,  but  the 
poorness  of  our  conceptions  is  such  that  it  cannot  for- 
bear setting  bounds  to  every  thing  it  contemplates,  till 
our  reason  comes  again  to  our  succor,  and  throws  down 
all  those  little  prejudices  which  rise  in  us  unawares,  and  95 
are  natural  to  the  mind  of  man. 

If  we  consider  Him  in  his  omnipresence:  His  being 
passes  through,  actuates,  and  supports  the  whole  frame 
of  nature.     His  creation,  and  every  part  of  it,  is  full  of 
him.     There  is  nothing  he  has  made,  that  is  either  so  100 
distant,  so  little,  or  so  inconsiderable,  which  he  does 
not  essentially   inhabit.     His  substance   is  within  the 
substance  of  every  being,  whether  material  or  immate- 
rial, and  as  intimately  present  to  it,  as  that  being  is  to 
itself.     It  would  be  an  imperfection  in  him,  were  he  105 
able  to  remove  out  of  one  place  into  another,  or  to  with- 
draw himself  from  anything  he  has  created,  or  from  any 
part  of  that  space  which  is  diffused  and  spread  abroad 
to  infinity.     In  short,  to  speak  of  him  in  the  language 
of  the  old  philosopher,  he  is  a  being  whose  centre  is  no 
every  where,  and  his  circumference  no  where. 

In  the  second  place,  he  is  omniscient  as  well  as  omni- 
present. His  omniscience  indeed  necessarily  and  natu- 
rally flows  from  his  omnipresence.  He  cannot  but  be 
conscious  of  every  motion  that  arises  in  the  whole  mate- 115 
rial  world,  which  he  thus  essentially  pervades;  and  of 
every  thought  that  is  stirring  in  the  intellectual  world,  to 
every  part  of  which  he  is  thus  intimately  united.  Several 
moralists  have  considered  the  creation  as  the  temple  of 
God,  which  he  has  built  with  his  own  hands,  and  which  120 


ADDISON  259 

is  filled  with  his  presence.  Others  have  considered  in- 
finite space  as  the  receptacle  or  rather  the  habitation  of 
the  Almighty :  but  the  noblest  and  most  exalted  way  of 
considering  this  infinite  space  is  that  of  Sir  Isaac  Newton, 
who  calls  it  the  sensorium  of  the  Godhead.  Brutes  and  125 
men  have  their  sensoriola,  or  little  sensoriums,  by  which 
they  apprehend  the  presence,  and  perceive  the  actions, 
of  a  few  objects  that  lie  contiguous  to  them.  Their 
knowledge  and  observation  turn  within  a  very  narrow 
circle.  But  as  God  Almighty  cannot  but  perceive  and  130 
know  every  thing  in  which  he  resides,  infinite  space  gives 
room  to  infinite  knowledge,  and  is,  as  it  were,  an  organ 
to  omniscience. 

Were  the  soul  separate  from  the  body,  and  with  one 
glance  of  thought  should  start  beyond  the  bounds  of  the  135 
creation,  should  it  for  millions  of  years  continue  its 
progress  through  infinite  space  with  the  same  activity,  it 
would  still  find  itself  within  the  embrace  of  its  Creator, 
and  encompassed  round  with  the  immensity  of  the  God- 
head. Whilst  we  are  in  the  body  he  is  not  less  present  140 
with  us  because  he  is  concealed  from  us.  "  O  that  I 
knew  where  I  might  find  him!"  says  Job.  "Behold, 
I  go  forward,  but  he  is  not  there ;  and  backward,  but  I 
cannot  perceive  him:  on  the  left  hand  where  he  does 
work,  but  I  cannot  behold  him :  he  hideth  himself  on  145 
the  right  hand,  that  I  cannot  see  him."  In  short, 
reason  as  well  as  revelation  assures  us,  that  he  cannot 
be  absent  from  us,  notwithstanding  he  is  undiscovered 
by  us.  .  .  . 


ALEXANDER    POPE 

(1688-1744) 

ESSAY   ON   CRITICISM 

Standards  of  Taste 

Some  to  Conceit  alone  their  taste  confine, 

And  glitt'ring  thoughts  struck  out  at  ev'ry  line ; 

Pleas'd  with  a  work  where  nothing's  just  or  fit ; 

One  glaring  Chaos  and  wild  heap  of  wit. 

Poets,  like  painters,  thus,  unskill'd  to  trace  5 

The  naked  nature  and  the  living  grace, 

With  gold  and  jewels  cover  ev'ry  part, 

And  hide  with  ornaments  their  want  of  art. 

True  wit  is  nature  to  advantage  dress'd  ; 

What  oft  was  thought,  but  ne'er  so  well  express'd  ;  lo 

Something,  whose  truth  convinc'd  at  sight  we  find, 

That  gives  us  back  the  image  of  our  mind. 

As  shades  more  sweetly  recommend  the  light, 

So  modest  plainness  sets  off  sprightly  wit. 

For  works  may  have  more  wit  than  does  'em  good,  15 

As  bodies  perish  through  excess  of  blood. 

Others  for  Language  all  their  care  express, 
And  value  books,  as  women  men,  for  dress  : 
Their  praise  is  still,  —  the  style  is  excellent ; 
The  sense,  they  humbly  take  upon  content.  20 

Words  are  like  leaves  ;  and  where  they  most  abound. 
Much  fruit  of  sense  beneath  is  rarely  found  : 
260 


POPE  261 

False  eloquence,  like  the  prismatic  glass, 

Its  gaudy  colours  spreads  on  ev'ry  place ; 

The  face  of  nature  we  no  more  survey,  25 

All  glares  alike,  without  distinction  gay  : 

But  true  expression,  like  th'  unchanging  sun, 

Clears  and  improves  whate'er  it  shines  upon  ; 

It  gilds  all  objects,  but  it  alters  none. 

Expression  is  the  dress  of  thought,  and  still  30 

Appears  more  decent,  as  more  suitable ; 

A  vile  conceit  in  pompous  words  expressed 

Is  like  a  clown  in  regal  purple  dressed  : 

For  diff 'rent  styles  with  diff'rent  subjects  sort. 

As  sev'ral  garbs  with  country,  town,  and  court.  35 

Some  by  old  words  to  fame  have  made  pretence. 

Ancients  in  phrase,  mere  moderns  in  their  sense  ; 

Such  labour'd  nothings,  in  so  strange  a  style, 

Amaze  th'  unlearn'd,  and  make  the  learn'd  smile, 

Unlucky,  as  Fungoso  in  the  play,  40 

These  sparks  with  awkward  vanity  display 

What  the  fine  gentleman  wore  yesterday ; 

And  but  so  mimic  ancient  wits  at  best, 

As  apes  our  grandsires,  in  their  doublets  drest. 

In  words,  as  fashions,  the  same  rule  will  hold ;  45 

Alike  fantastic,  if  too  new  or  old  : 

Be  not  the  first  by  whom  the  new  are  try'd, 

Nor  yet  the  last  to  lay  the  old  aside. 

But  most  by  numbers  judge  a  poet's  song. 
And  smooth  or  rough,  with  them,  is  right  or  wrong :         50 
In  the  bright  muse,  tho'  thousand  charms  conspire, 
Her  voice  is  all  these  tuneful  fools  admire ; 
Who  haunt  Parnassus  but  to  please  their  ear, 
Not  mend  their  minds ;  as  some  to  church  repair. 
Not  for  the  doctrine,  but  the  music  there.  55 


262  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

These  equal  syllables  alone  require, 

Tho'  oft  the  ear  the  open  vowels  tire ; 

While  expletives  their  feeble  aid  do  join ; 

And  ten  low  words  oft  creep  in  one  dull  line  : 

While  they  ring  round  the  same  unvaried  chimes,  60 

With  sure  returns  of  still  expected  rhymes  ; 

Where'er  you  find  '  the  cooling  western  breeze,' 

In  the  next  line,  it  *  whispers  through  the  trees ' : 

If  crystal  streams  '  with  pleasing  murmurs  creep,' 

The  reader's  threaten'd  (not  in  vain)  with  'sleep' :  65 

Then,  at  the  last  and  only  couplet  fraught 

With  some  unmeaning  thing  they  call  a  thought, 

A  needless  Alexandrine  ends  the  song, 

That,  like  a  wounded  snake,  drags  its  slow  length  along. 

Leave  such  to  tune  their  own  dull  rhymes,  and  know       70 

What's  roundly  smooth,  or  languishingly  slow; 

And  praise  the  easy  vigour  of  a  line. 

Where  Denham's  strength  and  Waller's  sweetness  join. 

True  ease  in  writing  comes  from  art,  not  chance, 

As  those  move  easiest  who  have  learn'd  to  dance.  75 

'Tis  not  enough  no  harshness  gives  offence. 

The  sound  must  seem  an  echo  to  the  sense : 

Soft  is  the  strain  when  Zephyr  gently  blows, 

And  the  smooth  stream  in  smoother  numbers  flows ; 

But  when  loud  surges  lash  the  sounding  shore,  80 

The  hoarse,  rough  verse  should  like  the  torrent  roar : 

When  Ajax  strives  some  rock's  vast  weight  to  throw, 

The  line  too  labours,  and  the  words  move  slow : 

Not  so,  when  swift  Camilla  scours  the  plain,  84 

Flies  o'er  th'  unbending  corn,  and  skims  along  the  main  : 

Hear  how  Timotheus'  vary'd  lays  surprise, 

And  bid  alternate  passions  fall  and  rise  ! 

"While  at  each  change,  the  son  of  Libyan  Jove 


POPE  263 

Now  burns  with  glory,  and  then  melts  with  love ; 

Now  his  fierce  eyes  with  sparkling  fury  glow,  90 

Now  sighs  steal  out,  and  tears  begin  to  flow : 

Persians  and  Greeks  like  turns  of  nature  found, 

And  the  world's  victor  stood  subdu'd  by  sound  ! 

The  power  of  music  all  our  hearts  allow. 

And  what  Timotheus  was,  is  Dryden  now.  95 

Avoid  extremes  ;  and  shun  the  fault  of  such. 

Who  still  are  pleas'd  too  little  or  too  much. 

At  ev'ry  trifle  scorn  to  take  offence, 

That  always  shows  great  pride,  or  little  sense : 

Those  heads,  as  stomachs,  are  not  sure  the  best  100 

Which  nauseate  all,  and  nothing  can  digest. 

Yet  let  not  each  gay  turn  thy  rapture  move ; 

For  fools  admire,  but  men  of  sense  approve  : 

As  things  seem  large  which  we  through  mists  decry, 

Dulness  is  ever  apt  to  magnify.  105 

Some  foreign  writers,  some  our  own  despise ; 
The  ancients  only,  or  the  moderns  prize. 
Thus  wit,  like  faith,  by  each  man  is  apply'd 
To  one  small  sect,  and  all  are  damn'd  beside. 
Meanly  they  seek  the  blessing  to  confine,  no 

And  force  that  sun  but  on  a  part  to  shine. 
Which  not  alone  the  southern  wit  sublimes, 
But  ripens  spirits  in  cold  northern  climes ; 
Which  from  the  first  has  shone  in  ages  past, 
Enlights  the  present,  and  shall  warm  the  last ;  115 

Tho'  each  may  feel  increases  and  decays, 
And  see  now  clearer  and  now  darker  days. 
Regard  not,  then,  if  wit  be  old  or  new. 
But  blame  the  false,  and  value  still  the  true. 

Some  ne'er  advance  a  judgment  of  their  own,  120 

But  catch  the  spreading  notion  of  the  Town ; 


264  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

They  reason  and  conclude  by  precedent, 

And  own  stale  nonsense  which  they  ne'er  invent. 

Some  judge  of  author's  names,  not  works,  and  then 

Nor  praise  nor  blame  the  writings,  but  the  men.         125 

Of  all  this  servile  herd,  the  worst  is  he 

That  in  proud  dulness  joins  with  Quality. 

A  constant  critic  at  the  great  man's  board, 

To  fetch  and  carry  nonsense  for  my  Lord. 

What  woful  stuff  this  madrigal  would  be,  130 

In  some  starv'd  hackney  sonneteer,  or  me  ? 

But  let  a  Lord  once  own  the  happy  hues, 

How  the  wit  brightens  !  how  the  stile  refines  ! 

Before  his  sacred  name  flies  ev'ry  fault, 

And  each  exalted  stanza  teems  with  thought  1  135 


THE  ESSAY  ON   MAN 

Book  I 

Heaven  from  all  creatures  hides  the  book  of  fate, 
All  but  the  page  prescrib'd,  their  present  state  : 
From  brutes  what  men,  from  men  what  spirits  know, 
Or  who  could  suffer  being  here  below? 
The  lamb  thy  riot  dooms  to  bleed  to-day, 
Had  he  thy  reason,  would  he  skip  and  play? 
Pleas'd  to  the  last,  he  crops  the  flow'ry  food. 
And  Ucks  the  hand  just  ras'd  to  shed  his  blood. 
Oh  blindness  to  the  future  !  kindly  giv'n. 
That  each  may  fill  the  circle  mark'd  by  Heav'n : 
Who  sees  with  equal  eye,  as  God  of  all, 
A  hero  perish,  or  a  sparrow  fall. 


POPE  265 

Atoms  or  systems  into  ruin  hurl'd, 

And  now  a  bubble  burst,  and  now  a  world. 

Hope  humbly  then;  with  trembUng  pinions  soar;    15 
Wait  the  great  teacher  death,  and  God  adore. 
What  future  bliss,  he  gives  not  thee  to  know, 
But  gives  that  hope,  to  be  thy  blessing  now. 
Hope  springs  eternal  in  the  human  breast : 
Man  never  is,  but  always  to  be  blest.  20 

The  soul  (uneasy  and  confin'd)  from  home. 
Rests  and  expatiates  in  a  life  to  come. 

Lo  the  poor  Indian  !  whose  untutor'd  mind 
Sees  God  in  clouds,  or  hears  him  in  the  wind  ; 
His  soul,  proud  science  never  taught  to  stray  25 

Far  as  the  solar  walk,  or  milky  way ; 
Yet  simple  nature  to  his  hope  has  giv'n. 
Behind  the  cloud-topt  hill,  an  humbler  heav'n  ; 
Some  safer  world  in  depth  of  woods  embrac'd, 
Some  happier  island  in  the  wat'ry  waste,  30 

Where  slaves  once  more  their  native  land  behold, 
No  fiends  torment,  no  Christians  thirst  for  gold. 
To  be,  contents  his  natural  desire, 
He  asks  no  angel's  wing,  no  seraph's  fire ; 
But  thinks,  admitted  to  that  equal  sky,  35 

His  faithful  dog  shall  bear  him  company. 

Go,  wiser  thou  !  and,  in  thy  scale  of  sense, 
Weigh  thy  opinion  against  Providence  ; 
Call  imperfection  what  thou  fanciest  such, 
Say,  Here  he  gives  too  little,  there  too  much :  40 

Destroy  all  creatures  for  thy  sport  or  gust. 
Yet  cry,  if  man's  unhappy,  God's  unjust ; 
If  man  alone  ingross  not  Heav'n's  high  care. 
Alone  made  perfect  here,  immortal  there  : 
Snatch  from  his  hand  the  balance  and  the  rod,  45 


2^  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

Rejudge  his  justice,  be  the  God  of  God. 

In  pride,  in  reas'ning  pride,  our  error  lies ; 

All  quit  their  sphere,  and  rush  into  the  skies. 

Pride  still  is  aiming  at  the  blest  abodes, 

Men  would  be  angels,  angels  would  be  Gods.  50 

Aspiring  to  be  Gods,  if  angels  fell. 

Aspiring  to  be  angels,  men  rebel : 

And  who  but  wishes  to  invert  the  laws 

Of  order,  sins  against  th'  Eternal  Cause. 

Ask  for  what  end  the  heav'nly  bodies  shine,  55 

Earth  for  whose  use  ?   Pride  answers  '  'Tis  for  mine  : 
For  me  kind  Nature  wakes  her  genial  pow'r, 
Suckles  each  herb,  and  spreads  out  ev'ry  flow'r ; 
Annual  for  me,  the  grape,  the  rose  renew. 
The  juice  nectareous,  and  the  balmy  dew ;  60 

For  me,  the  mine  a  thousand  treasures  brings ; 
For  me,  health  gushes  from  a  thousand  springs  ; 
Seas  roll  to  waft  me,  suns  to  light  me  rise ; 
My  foot-stool  earth,  my  canopy  the  skies.' 

But  errs  not  Nature  from  this  gracious  end,  65 

From  burning  suns  when  livid  deaths  descend. 
When  earthquakes  swallow,  or  when  tempests  sweep 
Towns  to  one  grave,  whole  nations  to  the  deep? 
*No  ('tis  replied)  the  first  Almighty  Cause 
Acts  not  by  partial,  but  by  gen'ral  laws ;  70 

Th'  exceptions  few ;  some  change  since  all  began  : 
And  what  created  perfect  ?  —  Why  then  Man  ? ' 
If  the  great  end  be  human  happiness, 
Then  nature  deviates  ;  and  can  man  do  less? 
As  much  that  end  a  constant  course  requires  75 

Of  show'rs  and  sun-shine,  as  of  man's  desires ; 
As  much  eternal  springs  and  cloudless  skies, 
As  men  for  ever  temp'rate,  calm,  and  wise. 


POPE  267 

If  plagues  or  earthquakes  break  not  Heaven's  design, 

Why  then  a  Borgia,  or  a  Catiline  ?  80 

Who  knows  but  He,  whose  hand  the  light'ning  forms, 

Who  heaves  old  ocean,  and  who  wings  the  storms ; 

Pours  fierce  ambition  in  a  Caesar's  mind. 

Or  turns  young  Amnion  loose  to  scourge  mankind? 

From  pride,  from  pride,  our  very  reas'ning  springs ;        85 

Account  for  moral,  as  for  nat'ral  things  : 

Why  charge  we  heav'n  in  those,  in  these  acquit? 

In  both,  to  reason  right  is  to  submit. 

Better  for  us,  perhaps,  it  might  appear. 
Were  there  all  harmony,  all  virtue  here ;  90 

That  never  air  or  ocean  felt  the  wind ; 
That  never  passion  discompos'd  the  mind. 
But  all  subsists  by  elemental  strife  ; 
And  passions  are  the  elements  of  Hfe. 
The  gen'ral  order,  since  the  whole  began,  95 

Is  kept  in  nature,  and  is  kept  in  man. 

What  would  this  man  ?     Now  upward  will  he  soar, 
And  little  less  than  angels,  would  be  more ; 
Now  looking  downwards,  just  as  griev'd  appears 
To  want  the  strength  of  bulls,  the  fur  of  bears.  100 

Made  for  his  use  all  creatures  if  he  call. 
Say,  what  their  use,  had  he  the  pow'rs  of  all ; 
Nature  to  these,  without  profusion,  kind, 
The  proper  organs,  proper  pow'rs  assign'd ; 
Each  seeming  want  compensated  of  course,  105 

Here  with  degrees  of  swiftness,  there  of  force  ; 
All  in  exact  proportion  to  the  state ; 
Nothing  to  add,  and  nothing  to  abate. 
Each  beast,  each  insect,  happy  in  its  own  : 
Is  heav'n  unkind  to  man,  and  man  alone?  no 

Shall  he  alone,  whom  rational  we  call, 


268  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

Be  pleas'd  with  nothing,  if  not  blessed  with  all  ? 

The  bUss  of  man  (could  pride  that  blessing  find) 
Is  not  to  act  or  think  beyond  mankind ; 
No  pow'rs  of  body  or  of  soul  to  share,  115 

But  what  his  nature  and  his  state  can  bear. 
Why  has  not  man  a  microscopic  eye  ? 
For  this  plain  reason,  man  is  not  a  fly. 
Say  what  the  use,  were  finer  optics  giv'n, 
T'  inspect  a  mite,  not  comprehend  the  heav'n?  120 

Or  touch,  if  tremblingly  alive  all  o'er, 
To  smart  and  agonize  at  every  pore  ? 
Or  quick  effluvia  darting  through  the  brain, 
Die  of  a  rose  in  aromatic  pain? 

If  nature  thunder'd  in  his  op'ning  ears,  125 

And  stunned  him  with  the  music  of  the  spheres, 
How  would  he  wish  that  heav'n  had  left  him  still 
The  whisp'ring  Zephyr,  and  the  purling  rill? 
Who  finds  not  Providence  all  good  and  wise, 
Alike  in  what  it  gives,  and  what  denies?  130 

Far  as  Creation's  ample  range  extends, 
The  scale  of  sensual,  mental  pow'rs  ascends  : 
Mark  how  it  mounts,  to  man's  imperial  race. 
From  the  green  myriads  in  the  peopled  grass : 
What  modes  of  sight  betwixt  each  wide  extreme,        135 
The  mole's  dim  curtain,  and  the  lynx's  beam  : 
Of  smell,  the  headlong  lioness  between. 
And  hound  sagacious  on  the  tainted  green : 
Of  hearing,  from  the  life  that  fills  the  flood. 
To  that  which  warbles  through  the  vernal  wood?        14a 
The  spider's  touch,  how  exquisitely  fine  ! 
Feels  at  each  thread,  and  lives  along  the  line  : 
In  the  nice  bee,  what  sense  so  subtly  true 
From  pois'nous  herbs  extracts  the  healing  dew? 


POPE  269 

How  instinct  varies  in  the  grov'ling  swine,  145 

Compar'd,  half-reas'ning  elephant,  with  thine  ! 

'Twixt  that,  and  reason,  what  a  nice  barrier? 

For  ever  sep'rate,  yet  for  ever  near  ! 

Remembrance  and  reflection,  how  alUed  ; 

What  thin  partitions  sense  from  thought  divide  ?         150 

And  middle  natures,  how  they  long  to  join. 

Yet  never  pass  th'  insuperable  line  ! 

Without  this  just  gradation,  could  they  be 

Subjected,  these  to  those,  or  all  to  thee? 

The  pow'rs  of  all  subdu'd  by  thee  alone,  155 

Is  not  thy  reason  all  these  pow'rs  in  one  ? 

See,  through  this  air,  this  ocean,  and  this  earth. 
All  matter  quick,  and  bursting  into  birth. 
Above,  how  high,  progressive  life  may  go  ! 
Around,  how  wide,  how  deep  extend  below  !  160 

Vast  chain  of  Being  !  which  from  God  began. 
Natures  ethereal,  human,  angel,  man. 
Beast,  bird,  fish,  insect,  what  no  eye  can  see, 
No  glass  can  reach ;  from  infinite  to  thee. 
From  thee  to  Nothing.  —  On  superior  pow'rs  165 

Were  we  to  press,  inferior  might  on  ours  : 
Or  in  the  full  creation  leave  a  void. 
Where,  one  step  broken,  the  great  scale's  destroy'd  : 
From  Nature's  chain  whatever  link  you  strike, 
Tenth,  or  ten  thousandth,  breaks  the  chain  alike.       170 

And,  if  each  system  in  gradation  roll 
Alike  essential  to  th'  amazing  whole. 
The  least  confusion  but  in  one,  not  all 
That  system  only,  but  the  whole  must  fall. 
Let  earth  unbalanc'd  from  her  orbit  fly,  175 

Planets  and  stars  run  lawless  through  the  sky ; 
Let  ruling  angels  from  their  spheres  be  hurl'd. 


270  FROM  CHAUCER   TO  ARNOLD 

Being  on  being  \^Teck'd,  and  world  on  world ; 
Heaven's  whole  foundations  to  their  centre  nod, 
And  nature  trembles  to  the  throne  of  God.  180 

All  this  dread  order  break  —  for  whom?  for  thee? 
Vile  worm  !  —  oh  madness  !  pride  !  impiety  ! 

What  if  the  foot,  ordain'd  the  dust  to  tread, 
Or  hand,  to  toil,  aspir'd  to  be  the  head  ? 
What  if  the  head,  the  eye,  or  ear  repin'd  185 

To  serve  mere  engines  to  the  ruling  mind? 
Just  as  absurd  for  any  part  to  claim 
To  be  another,  in  this  gen'ral  frame  : 
Just  as  absurd,  to  mourn  the  tasks  or  pains, 
The  great  directing  mind  of  all  ordains.  190 

All  are  but  parts  of  one  stupendous  whole. 
Whose  body  nature  is,  and  God  the  soul ; 
That,  chang'd  through  all,  and  yet  in  all  the  same ; 
Great  in  the  earth,  as  in  the  ethereal  frame ; 
Warms  in  the  sun,  refreshes  in  the  breeze,  195 

Glows  in  the  stars,  and  blossoms  in  the  trees. 
Lives  through  all  life,  extends  through  all  extent. 
Spreads  undivided,  operates  unspent ; 
Breathes  in  our  soul,  informs  our  mortal  part, 
As  full,  as  perfect,  in  a  hair  as  heart ;  200 

As  full,  as  perfect,  in  vile  man  that  mourns. 
As  the  rapt  seraph,  that  adores  and  burns : 
To  him  no  high,  no  low,  no  great,  no  small ; 
He  fills,  he  bounds,  connects,  one  equals  all. 

Cease  then,  nor  order  imperfection  name  :  205 

Our  proper  bliss  depends  on  what  we  blame. 
Know  thy  own  point :  This  kind,  this  due  degree 
Of  blindness,  weakness,  heaven  bestows  on  thee. 
Submit.  —  In  this,  or  any  other  sphere, 
Secure  to  be  as  blest  as  thou  canst  bear :  aio 


POPE  271 

Safe  in  the  hand  of  one  disposing  pow'r, 

Or  in  the  natal,  or  the  mortal  hour. 

All  nature  is  but  art,  unknown  to  thee ; 

All  chance,  direction,  which  thou  canst  not  see ; 

All  discord  harmony  not  understood ;  215 

All  partial  evil,  universal  good  : 

And,  spite  of  pride,  in  erring  reason's  spite, 

One  truth  is  clear,  Whatever  is,  is  right. 


ON  THE  PICTURE  OF  LADY  MARY  W.  MONTAGU 

The  playful  smiles  around  the  dimpled  mouth, 
That  happy  air  of  majesty  and  truth  ; 
So  would  I  draw  (but  oh  !  'tis  vain  to  try. 
My  narrow  genius  does  the  power  deny ;) 
The  equal  lustre  of  the  heavenly  mind. 
Where  ev'ry  grace  with  every  virtue's  join'd ; 
Learning  not  vain,  and  wisdom  not  severe, 
With  greatness  easy,  and  with  wit  sincere ; 
With  just  description  show  the  work  divine, 
And  the  whole  princess  in  my  work  should  shine. 


JAMES   THOMSON 
(1700-1748) 

THE   SEASONS 

SPRING 

The  Coming  of  the  Rain 

At  first  a  dusky  wreath  they  seem  to  rise, 
Scarce  staining  ether ;  but  by  fast  degrees. 
In  heaps  on  heaps,  the  doubling  vapour  sails 
Along  the  loaded  sky,  and  mingling  deep, 
Sits  on  the  horizon  round  a  settled  gloom  : 
Not  such  as  wintry  storms  on  mortals  shed, 
Oppressing  life ;  but  lovely,  gentle,  kind. 
And  full  of  every  hope  and  every  joy. 
The  wish  of  Nature.     Gradual  sinks  the  breeze 
Into  a  perfect  calm  ;  that  not  a  breath 
Is  heard  to  quiver  through  the  closing  woods, 
Or  rustling  turn  the  many  twinkling  leaves 
Of  aspen  tall.     The  uncurHng  floods,  diffused 
In  glassy  breadth,  seem  through  delusive  lapse 
Forgetful  of  their  course.     'Tis  silence  all, 
And  pleasing  expectation.     Herds  and  flocks 
Drop  the  dry  sprig,  and,  mute-imploring,  eye 
The  fallen  verdure.     Hushed  in  short  suspense. 
The  plumy  people  streak  their  wings  with  oil, 
To  throw  the  lucid  moisture  trickling  off; 
And  wait  the  approaching  sign  to  strike,  at  once, 
272 


THOMSON  273 

Into  the  general  choir.     Even  mountains,  vales, 

And  forests  seem,  impatient,  to  demand 

The  promised  sweetness.     Man  superior  walks 

Amid  the  glad  creation,  musing  praise,  25 

And  looking  lively  gratitude.     At  last, 

The  clouds  consign  their  treasures  to  the  fields ; 

And,  softly  shaking  on  the  dimpled  pool 

Prelusive  drops,  let  all  their  moisture  flow, 

In  large  effusion,  o'er  the  freshened  world.  30 


SUMMER 

TTie  Sheep-Washing 

Or  rushing  thence,  in  one  diffusive  band. 
They  drive  the  troubled  flocks,  by  many  a  dog 
Compelled,  to  where  the  mazy-running  brook 
Forms  a  deep  pool ;  this  bank  abrupt  and  high, 
And  that,  fair-spreading  in  a  pebbled  shore. 
Urged  to  the  giddy  brink,  much  is  the  toil, 
The  clamour  much,  of  men,  and  boys,  and  dogs, 
Ere  the  soft  fearful  people  to  the  flood 
Commit  their  woolly  sides.     And  oft  the  swain. 
On  some  impatient  seizing,  hurls  them  in  : 
Emboldened  then,  nor  hesitating  more. 
Fast,  fast,  they  plunge  amid  the  flashing  wave, 
And  panting  labour  to  the  farthest  shore. 
Repeated  this,  till  deep  the  well-washed  fleece 
Has  drunk  the  flood,  and  from  his  lively  haunt 
The  trout  is  banished  by  the  sordid  stream. 
Heavy  and  dripping,  to  the  breezy  brow 
Slow  move  the  harmless  race  ;  where,  as  they  spread 
Their  swelling  treasures  to  the  sunny  ray, 


274  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

Inly  disturbed,  and  wondering  what  this  wild  zc 

Outrageous  tumult  means,  their  loud  complaints 
The  country  fill  —  and,  tossed  from  rock  to  rock, 
Incessant  bleatings  run  around  the  hills. 
At  last,  of  snowy  white,  the  gathered  flocks 
Are  in  the  wattled  pen,  innumerous  pressed,  25 

Head  above  head ;  and  ranged  in  lusty  rows 
The  shepherds  sit,  and  whet  the  sounding  shears. 
The  housewife  waits  to  roll  her  fleecy  stores. 
With  all  her  gay-drest  maids  attending  round. 
One,  chief,  in  gracious  dignity  enthroned,  30 

Shines  o'er  the  rest,  the  pastoral  queen,  and  rays 
Her  smiles,  sweet-beaming,  on  her  shepherd-king ; 
While  the  glad  circle  round  them  yield  their  souls 
To  festive  mirth,  and  wit  that  knows  no  gall. 
Meantime,  their  joyous  task  goes  on  apace  :  35 

Some  mingling  stir  the  melted  tar,  and  some, 
Deep  on  the  new-shorn  vagrant's  heaving  side, 
To  stamp  his  master's  cypher  ready  stand ; 
Others  the  unwilling  wether  drag  along ; 
And,  glorying  in  his  might,  the  sturdy  boy  40 

Holds  by  the  twisted  horns  the  indignant  ram. 
Behold  where  bound,  and  of  its  robe  bereft, 
By  needy  man,  that  all-depending  lord. 
How  meek,  how  patient,  the  mild  creature  lies  ! 
What  softness  in  its  melancholy  face,  45 

What  dumb  complaining  innocence  appears ! 
Fear  not,  ye  gentle  tribes,  'tis  not  the  knife 
Of  horrid  slaughter  that  is  o'er  you  waved  ; 
\       No,  'tis  the  tender  swain's  well-guided  shears, 

Who  having  now,  to  pay  his  annual  care,  50 

Borrowed  your  fleece,  to  you  a  cumbrous  load, 
Will  send  you  bounding  to  your  hills  again, 


THOMSON  275 

AUTUMN 

Storm  in  Harvest 

Defeating  oft  the  labours  of  the  year, 
The  sultry  south  collects  a  potent  blast. 
At  first,  the  groves  are  scarcely  seen  to  stir 
Their  trembling  tops,  and  a  still  murmur  runs 
Along  the  soft-inclining  fields  of  corn;  5 

But  as  the  aerial  tempest  fuller  swells, 
And  in  one  mighty  stream,  invisible, 
Immense,  the  whole  excited  atmosphere 
Impetuous  rushes  o'er  the  sounding  world, 
Strained  to  the  root,  the  stooping  forest  pours  10 

A  rustling  shower  of  yet  untimely  leaves. 
High-beat,  the  circling  mountains  eddy  in, 
From  the  bare  wild,  the  dissipated  storm. 
And  send  it  in  a  torrent  down  the  vale. 
Exposed,  and  naked,  to  its  utmost  rage,  15 

Through  all  the  sea  of  harvest  rolling  round, 
The  billowy  plain  floats  wide  ;  nor  can  evade, 
Though  pliant  to  the  blast,  its  seizing  force  — 
Or  whirled  in  air,  or  into  vacant  chaff 
Shook  waste.     And  sometimes  too  a  burst  of  rain,      20 
Swept  from  the  black  horizon,  broad,  descends 
In  one  continuous  flood.     Still  over  head 
The  mingling  tempest  weaves  its  gloom,  and  still 
The  deluge  deepens  ;  till  the  fields  around 
Lie  sunk,  and  flatted,  in  the  sordid  wave.  25 

Sudden,  the  ditches  swell ;  the  meadows  swim. 
Red,  from  the  hills,  innumerable  streams 
Tumultuous  roar ;  and  high  above  its  bank 
The  river  lift ;  before  whose  rushing  tide. 
Herds,  flocks,  and  harvests,  cottages,  and  swains,        30 


276  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

Roll  mingled  down  :  all  that  the  winds  had  spared, 

In  one  wild  moment  ruined ;  the  big  hopes, 

And  well-earned  treasures,  of  the  painful  year. 

Fled  to  some  eminence,  the  husbandman, 

Helpless,  beholds  the  miserable  wreck  35 

Driving  along ;  his  drowning  ox  at  once 

Descending,  with  his  labours  scattered  round, 

He  sees  ;  and  instant  o'er  his  shivering  thought 

Comes  Winter  unprovided,  and  a  train 

Of  clamant  children  dear.     Ye  masters,  then,  40 

Be  mindful  of  the  rough  laborious  hand 

That  sinks  you  soft  in  elegance  and  ease ; 

Be  mindful  of  those  limbs,  in  russet  clad, 

Whose  toil  to  yours  is  warmth  and  graceful  pride  ; 

And,  oh,  be  mindful  of  that  sparing  board  45 

Which  covers  yours  with  luxury  profuse. 

Makes  your  glass  sparkle,  and  your  sense  rejoice  ! 

Nor  cruelly  demand  what  the  deep  rains 

And  all-involving  winds  have  swept  away. 


WINTER 

A  Snow  Scene 

The  keener  tempests  come  :  and  fuming  dun 
From  all  the  Hvid  east,  or  piercing  north. 
Thick  clouds  ascend  —  in  whose  capacious  womb 
A  vapoury  deluge  lies,  to  snow  congealed. 
Heavy  they  roll  their  fleecy  world  along ;  5 

And  the  sky  saddens  with  the  gathered  storm. 
Through  the  hushed  air  the  whitening  shower  descends. 
At  first  thin  wavering  ;  till  at  last  the  flakes 
Fall  broad,  and  white,  and  fast,  dimming  the  day 


THOMSON  277 

With  a  continual  flow.     The  cherished  fields  10 

Put  on  their  winter-robe  of  purest  white. 

'Tis  brightness  all ;  save  where  the  new  snow  melts 

Along  the  mazy  current.     Low,  the  woods 

Bow  their  hoar  head ;  and,  ere  the  languid  sun 

Faint  from  the  west  emits  his  evening  ray,  15 

Earth's  universal  face,  deep-hid  and  chill, 

Is  one  wild  dazzling  waste,  that  buries  wide 

The  works  of  man.     Drooping,  the  labourer-ox 

Stands  covered  o'er  with  snow,  and  then  demands 

The  fruit  of  all  his  toil.     The  fowls  of  heaven,  20 

Tamed  by  the  cruel  season,  crowd  around 

The  winnowing  store,  and  claim  the  little  boon 

Which  Providence  assigns  them.     One  alone, 

The  redbreast,  sacred  to  the  household  gods. 

Wisely  regardful  of  the  embroihng  sky,  35 

In  joyless  fields  and  thorny  thickets  leaves 

His  shivering  mates,  and  pays  to  trusted  man 

His  annual  visit.     Half  afraid,  he  first 

Against  the  window  beats  ;  then,  brisk,  alights 

On  the  warm  hearth ;  then,  hopping  o'er  the  floor,     30 

Eyes  all  the  smiling  family  askance, 

And  pecks,  and  starts  and  wonders  where  he  is  — 

Till,  more  familiar  grown,  the  table-crumbs 

Attract  his  slender  feet.     The  foodless  wilds 

Pour  forth  their  brown  inhabitants.     The  hare,  35 

Though  timorous  of  heart,  and  hard  beset 

By  death  in  various  forms,  dark  snares,  and  dogs. 

And  more  unpitying  men,  the  garden  seeks, 

Urged  on  by  fearless  want.     The  bleating  kind 

Eye  the  black  heaven,  and  next  the  glistening  earth    40 

With  looks  of  dumb  despair ;  then,  sad  dispersed, 

Dig  for  the  withered  herb  through  heaps  of  snow. 


2/8  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

THE   CASTLE   OF   INDOLENCE 
Book  I 

In  lowly  dale,  fast  by  a  river's  side, 
With  woody  hill  o'er  hill  encompassed  round, 
A  most  enchanting  wizard  did  abide, 
Than  whom  a  fiend  more  fell  is  nowhere  found. 
It  was,  I  ween,  a  lovely  spot  of  ground ;  5 

And  there  a  season  atween  June  and  May, 
Half  prankt  with  spring,  with  summer  half  imbrowned, 
A  listless  climate  made,  where,  sooth  to  say, 
No  Uving  wight  could  work,  ne  carfed  even  for  play. 

Was  nought  around  but  images  of  rest :  10 

Sleep-soothing  groves,  and  quiet  lawns  between ; 
And  flowery  beds  that  slumbrous  influence  kest, 
From  poppies  breathed,  and  beds  of  pleasant  green. 
Where  never  yet  was  creeping  creature  seen. 
Meantime,  unnumbered  glittering  streamlets  played,       15 
And  hurled  everywhere  their  waters  sheen ; 
That,  as  they  bickered  through  the  sunny  glade, 
Though  restless  still  themselves,  a  lulling  murmur  made. 

Joined  to  the  prattle  of  the  purling  rills 
Were  heard  the  lowing  herds  along  the  vale,  ao 

And  flocks  loud  bleating  from  the  distant  hills. 
And  vacant  shepherds  piping  in  the  dale  ; 
And,  now  and  then,  sweet  Philomel  would  wail. 
Or  stockdoves  plain  amid  the  forest  deep, 
That  drowsy  rustled  to  the  sighing  gale  ;  25 

And  still  a  coil  the  grasshopper  did  keep  ; 
Yet  all  these  sounds  yblent  inclined  all  to  sleep. 


THOMSON  279 

Full  in  the  passage  of  the  vale,  above, 
A  sable,  silent,  solemn  forest  stood, 
Where  nought  but  shadowy  forms  was  seen  to  move,       30 
As  Idless  fancied  in  her  dreaming  mood ; 
And  up  the  hills,  on  either  side,  a  wood 
Of  blackening  pines,  aye  waving  to  and  fro, 
Sent  forth  a  sleepy  horror  through  the  blood; 
And  where  this  valley  winded  out,  below,  35 

The  murmuring  main  was  heard,  and  scarcely  heard,  to  flow. 


A  pleasing  land  of  drowsy-head  it  was. 
Of  dreams  that  wave  before  the  half-shut  eye ; 
And  of  gay  castles  in  the  clouds  that  pass, 
For  ever  flushing  round  a  summer-sky  :  40 

There  eke  the  soft  delights,  that  witchingly 
•  Instil  a  wanton  sweetness  through  the  breast ; 
And  the  calm  pleasures  always  hovered  nigh ; 
But  whate'er  smacked  of  noyance  or  unrest, 
Was  far,  far  off  expelled  from  this  delicious  nest.  45 


Straight  of  these  endless  numbers,  swarming  round. 
As  thick  as  idle  motes  in  sunny  ray. 
Not  one  eftsoons  in  view  was  to  be  found, 
But  every  man  strolled  off  his  own  glad  way ; 
Wide  o'er  this  ample  court's  blank  area,  50 

With  all  the  lodges  that  thereto  pertained, 
No  living  creature  could  be  seen  to  stray ; 
While  solitude,  and  perfect  silence  reigned  ; 
So  that  to  think  you  dreamt  you  almost  was  constrained. 


280  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

As  when  a  shepherd  of  the  Hebrid-Isles,  55 

Placed  far  amid  the  melancholy  main, 
(Whether  it  be  lone  fancy  him  beguiles ; 
Or  that  aerial  beings  sometimes  deign 
To  stand,  embodied,  to  our  senses  plain) 
Sees  on  the  naked  hill,  or  valley  low,  60 

The  whilst  in  Ocean  Phoebus  dips  his  wain 
A  vast  assembly  moving  to  and  fro, 
Then  all  at  once  in  air  dissolves  the  wondrous  show. 


Near  the  pavilions  where  we  slept,  still  ran 
Soft  tinkling  streams,  and  dashing  waters  fell,  65 

And  sobbing  breezes  sighed,  and  oft  began 
(So  worked  the  wizard)  wintry  storms  to  swell, 
As  heaven  and  earth  they  would  together  mell ; 
At  doors  and  windows  threatening  seemed  to  call 
The  demons  of  the  tempest,  growling  fell,  70 

Yet  the  least  entrance  found  they  none  at  all : 
Whence  sweeter  grew  our  sleep  secure  in  massy  hall. 


And  hither  Morpheus  sent  his  kindest  dreams, 
Raising  a  world  of  gayer  tinct  and  grace ; 
O'er  which  were  shadowy  cast  elysian  gleams,  75 

That  played,  in  waving  lights,  from  place  to  place  \ 
And  shed  a  roseate  smile  on  nature's  face. 
Not  Titian's  pencil  e'er  could  so  array, 
So  fleece  with  clouds  the  pure  ethereal  space ; 
Ne  could  it  e'er  such  melting  forms  display,  80 

As  loose  on  flowery  beds  all  languishingly  lay. 


THOMSON  281 

No,  fair  illusions  !  artful  phantoms,  no  ! 
My  muse  will  not  attempt  your  fairy  land : 
She  has  no  colours  that  like  you  can  glow : 
To  catch  your  vivid  scenes  too  gross  her  hand.  85 

But  sure  it  is,  was  ne'er  a  subtler  band 
Than  these  same  guileful  angel-seeming  sprights, 
Who  thus  in  dreams  voluptuous,  soft,  and  bland, 
Poured  all  the  Arabian  heaven  upon  our  nights. 
And  blest  them  oft  besides  with  .more  refined  delights.  90 


To  number  up  the  thousands  dwelling  here. 
An  useless  were,  and  eke  an  endless  task ; 
From  kings,  and  those  who  at  the  helm  appear. 
To  gipsies  brown  in  summer-glades  who  bask. 
Yea  many  a  man,  perdie,  I  could  unmask,  95 

Whose  desk  and  table  make  a  solemn  show. 
With  tape-ty'd  trash,  and  suits  of  fools  that  ask 
For  place  or  pension  laid  in  decent  row ; 
But  these  I  passen  by,  with  nameless  numbers  moe. 


Of  all  the  gentle  tenants  of  the  place,  100 

There  was  a  man  of  special  grave  remark ; 
A  certain  tender  gloom  o'erspread  his  face, 
Pensive,  not  sad  ;  in  thought  involv'd,  not  dark ; 
As  soot  this  man  could  sing  as  morning  lark, 
And  teach  the  noblest  morals  of  the  heart ;  105 

But  these  his  talents  were  yburied  stark  : 
Of  the  fine  stores  he  nothing  would  impart. 
Which  or  boon  Nature  gave,  or  nature-painting  Art. 


282  FROM   CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

To  noontide  shades  incontinent  he  ran, 
Where  purls  the  brook  with  sleep-inviting  sound,  no 

Or  when  Dan  Sol  to  slope  his  wheels  began, 
Amid  the  broom  he  bask'd  them  on  the  ground, 
Where  the  wild  thyme  and  camomile  are  found  ; 
There  would  he  linger,  till  the  latest  ray 
Of  light  fate  trembling  on  the  welkin's  bound,  115 

Then  homeward  thro'  the  twilight  shadows  stray, 
Sauntering  and  slow  :  so  had  he  passed  many  a  day. 


Yet  not  in  thoughtless  slumber  were  they  past ; 
For  oft  the  heavenly  fire,  that  lay  conceal'd 
Beneath  the  sleeping  embers,  mounted  fast. 
And  all  its  native  light  anew  revealed ; 
Oft  as  he  travers'd  the  cerulean  field. 
And  marked  the  clouds  that  drove  before  the  wind, 
Ten  thousand  glorious  systems  would  he  build. 
Ten  thousand  great  ideas  fiU'd  his  mind  : 
But  with  the  clouds  they  fled,  and  left  no  trace  behind. 


With  him  was  sometimes  join'd,  in  silent  walk, 
(Profoundly  silent,  for  they  never  spoke) 
One  shyer  still,  who  quite  detested  talk ; 
Oft  stung  by  spleen,  at  once  away  he  broke,  130 

To  groves  of  pine  and  broad  o'ershadowing  oak  ; 
There  inly  thrill'd,  he  wander'd  all  alone. 
And  on  himself  his  pensive  fury  wroke, 
Ne  ever  utter'd  word,  save  when  first  shone 
The  glittering  star  of  eve,  —  'Thank  Heaven  !  the  day  is  135 
done.' 


SAMUEL   JOHNSON 

(1709-1784) 

PREFACE   TO   SHAKESPEARE 
Shakespeare's  Greatness 

The  work  of  a  correct  and  regular  writer  is  a  garden 
accurately  formed  and  diligently  planted,  varied  with 
shades,  and  scented  with  flowers;  the  composition  of 
Shakespeare  is  a  forest,  in  which  oaks  extend  their 
branches,  and  pines  tower  in  the  air,  interspersed  some-  5 
times  with  weeds  and  brambles,  and  sometimes  giving 
shelter  to  myrtles  and  to  roses;  filling  the  eye  with  awful 
pomp,  and  gratifying  the  mind  with  endless  diversity. 
Other  poets  display  cabinets  of  precious  rarities, 
minutely  finished,  wrought  into  shape,  and  polished  into  10 
brightness.  Shakespeare  opens  a  mine  which  contains 
gold  and  diamonds  in  unexhaustible  plenty,  though 
clouded  by  incrustations,  debased  by  impurities,  and 
mingled  with  a  mass  of  meaner  materials.  .  .  . 

That  much  knowledge  is  scattered  over  his  works  is  15 
very  justly  observed  by  Pope;  but  it  is  often  such  knowl- 
edge as  books  did  not  supply.  He  that  will  understand 
Shakespeare,  must  not  be  content  to  study  him  in  the 
closet;  he  must  look  for  his  meaning  sometimes  among 
the  sports  of  the  field,  and  sometimes  among  the  manu-  20 
factures  of  the  shop. 

There  is,  however,  proof   enough  that  he  was  a  very 
diligent  reader,  nor  was  our  language  then  so  indigent 

283 


284  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

of  books,  but  that  he  might  very  liberally  indulge  his 
curiosity  without  excursion  into  foreign  literature.  25 
Many  of  the  Roman  authors  were  translated,  and  some 
of  the  Greek;  the  Reformation  had  filled  the  kingdom 
with  theological  learning;  most  of  the  topicks  of  human 
disquisition  had  found  English  writers;  and  poetry  had 
been  cultivated,  not  only  with  diligence,  but  success.  30 
This  was  a  stock  of  knowledge  sufficient  for  a  mind  so 
capable  of  appropriating  and  improving  it. 

But  the  greater  part  of  his  excellence  was  the  product 
of  his  own  genius.  He  found  the  English  stage  in  a  state 
of  the  utmost  rudeness;  no  essays  either  in  tragedy  or  35 
comedy  had  appeared  from  which  it  could  be  discovered 
to  what  degree  of  delight  either  one  or  other  might  be 
carried.  Neither  character  nor  dialogue  were  yet  under- 
stood. Shakespeare  may  be  truly  said  to  have  intro- 
duced them  both  amongst  us,  and  in  some  of  his  happier  40 
scenes  to  have  carried  them  both  to  the  utmost  height. 

By  what  gradations  of  improvement  he  proceeded,  is 
not  easily  known;  for  the  chronology  of  his  works  is  yet 
unsettled.  Rowe  is  of  opinion  that  "  perhaps  we  are  not 
to  look  for  his  beginning,  like  those  of  other  writers,  in  45 
his  least  perfect  works;  art  had  so  little,  and  nature  so 
large  a  share  in  what  he  did  that  for  aught  I  know,"  says 
he,  "  the  performances  of  his  youth,  as  they  were  the 
most  vigorous,  were  the  best." 

But  the  power  of  nature  is  only  the  power  of  using  to  50 
any  certain  purpose  the  materials  which  diligence  pro- 
cures, or  opportunity  supplies.  Nature  gives  no  man 
knowledge,  and,  when  images  are  collected  by  study  and 
experience,  can  only  assist  in  combining  or  applying 
them.  Shakespeare,  however  favoured  by  nature,  could  55 
impart  only  what  he  had  learned;  and  as  he  must  in- 


JOHNSON  285 

crease  his  ideas,  like  other  mortals,  by  gradual  acquisi- 
tion, he,  like  them,  grew  wiser  as  he  grew  older,  could 
display  life  better,  as  he  knew  it  more,  and  instruct  with 
more  efficacy,  as  he  was  himself  more  amply  instructed.   6c 

There  is  a  vigilance  of  observation  and  accuracy  of 
distinction  which  books  and  precepts  cannot  confer; 
from  this  almost  all  original  and  native  excellence  pro- 
ceeds. Shakespeare  must  have  looked  upon  mankind 
with  perspicacity,  in  the  highest  degree  curious  and  at-  65 
tentive.  Other  writers  borrow  their  characters  from 
preceding  writers,  and  diversify  them  only  by  the  acci- 
dental appendages  of  present  manners;  the  dress  is  a 
little  varied,  but  the  body  is  the  same.  Our  author  had 
both  matter  and  form  to  provide;  for,  except  the  char-  70 
acters  of  Chaucer,  to  whom  I  think,  he  is  not  much  in- 
debted, there  were  no  writers  in  English,  and  perhaps 
not  many  in  other  modern  languages,  which  showed  life 
in  its  native  colours. 

The  contest  about  the  original  benevolence  or  malig-  75 
nity  of  man  had  not  yet  commenced.     Speculation  had 
not  yet  attempted  to  analyse  the  mind,  to  trace  the  pas- 
sions to  their  sources,  to  unfold  the  seminal  principles  of 
vice  and  virtue,  or  sound  the  depths  of  the  heart  for  the 
motives  of  action.    All  those  enquiries,  which  from  that  80 
time  that  human  nature  became  the  fashionable  study, 
have  been  made  sometimes  with  nice  discernment,  but 
often  with  idle  subtility,  were  yet  unattempted.     The 
tales  with  which  the  infancy  of  learning  was  satisfied, 
exhibited  only  the  superficial  appearances  of  action,  re-  85 
lated  the  events,  but  omitted  the  causes,  and  were  formed 
for  such  as  delighted  in  wonders  rather  than  in  truth. 
Mankind  was  not  then  to  be  studied  in  the  closet;  he 
that  would  know  the  world,  was  under  the  necessity  of 


286  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD      , 

gleaning  his  own  remarks  by  mingling  as  he  could  in  its  90 
business  and  amusements. 

Boyle  congratulated  himself  upon  his  high  birth,  be- 
cause it  favoured  his  curiosity  by  facilitating  his  access. 
Shakespeare  had  no  such  advantage;  he  came  to  London 
a  needy  adventurer,  and  lived  for  a  time  by  very  mean  95 
employments.     Many  works  of  genius  and  learning  have 
been  performed  in  states  of  life  that  appear  very  little 
favourable  to  thought  or  to  enquiry;  so  many,  that  he 
who  considers  them  is  inclined  to  think  that  he  sees  en- 
terprise and  perseverance  predominating  over  all  external  100 
agency,  and  bidding  help  and  hindrance  vanish  before 
them.     The  genius  of  Shakespeare  was  not  to  be  de- 
pressed by  the  weight  of  poverty,  nor  limited  by  the 
narrow  conversation  to  which  men  in  want  are  inevitably 
condemned;  the  incumbrances  of  his  fortune  were  shaken  105 
from  his  mind,  "as  dew  drops  from  a  lion's  mane." 

Though  he  had  so  many  difficulties  to  encounter,  and 
so  little  assistance  to  surmount  them,  he  has  been  able 
to  obtain  an  exact  knowledge  of  many  modes  of  life,  and 
many  casts  of  native  dispositions;  to  vary  them  with  no 
great  multiplicity;  to  mark  them  by  nice  distinctions; 
and  to  show  them  in  full  view  by  proper  combinations. 
In  this  part  of  his  performances  he  had  none  to  imitate, 
but  has  been  himself  imitated  by  all  succeeding  writers; 
and  it  may  be  doubted  whether  from  all  his  successours  115 
more  maxims  of  theoretical  knowledge,  or  more  rules  of 
practical  prudence,  can  be  collected,  than  he  alone  has 
given  to  his  country. 

Nor  was  his  attention  confined  to  the  actions  of  men; 
he  was  an  exact  surveyor  of  the  inanimate  world;  his  120 
descriptions  have   always  some  peculiarities,   gathered 
by  contemplating  things  as  they  really  exist.     It  may  be 


JOHNSON  287 

obsen-ed  that  the  oldest  poets  of  many  nations  preserve 
their  reputation,  and  that  the  following  generations  of 
wit,  after  a  short  celebrity,  sink  into  oblivion.  The  125 
first,  whoever  they  be,  must  take  their  sentiments  and 
descriptions  immediately  from  knowledge;  the  resem- 
blance is  therefore  just,  their  descriptions  are  verified 
by  every  eye,  and  their  sentiments  acknowledged  by 
every  breast.  Those  whom  their  fame  invites  to  the  13c 
same  studies  copy  partly  them,  and  partly  nature,  till 
the  books  of  one  age  gain  such  authority  as  to  stand  in 
the  place  of  nature  to  another,  and  imitation,  always 
deviating  a  little,  becomes  at  last  capricious  and  casual. 
Shakespeare,  whether  life  or  nature  be  his  subject,  shows  135 
plainly  that  he  has  seen  with  his  own  eyes;  he  gives  the 
image  which  he  receives,  not  weakened  or  distorted  by 
the  intervention  of  any  other  mind;  the  ignorant  feel 
his  representations  to  be  just,  and  the  learned  see  that 
they  are  complete.  140 

Perhaps  it  would  not  be  easy  to  find  any  author,  ex- 
cept Homer,  who  invented  so  much  as  Shakespeare,  who 
so  much  advanced  the  studies  which  he  cultivated,  or 
effused  so  much  novelty  upon  his  age  or  country.  The 
form,  the  characters,  the  language,  and  the  shows  of  the  145 
English  drama  are  his.  "He  seems,"  says  Dennis,  "to 
have  been  the  very  original  of  our  English  tragical  har- 
mony, that  is,  the  harmony  of  blank  verse,  diversified 
often  by  dissyllable  and  trissyllable  terminations.  For 
the  diversity  distinguishes  it  from  heroick  harmony,  and  150 
by  bringing  it  nearer  to  common  use  makes  it  more  proper 
to  gain  attention,  and  more  fit  for  action  and  dialogue. 
Such  verse  we  make  when  we  are  writing  prose;  we  make 
such  verse  in  common  conversation." 

I  know  not  whether  this  praise  is  rigorously  just.     The  155 


288  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

dissyllable  termination,  which  the  critick  rightly  appro- 
priates to  the  drama,  is  to  be  found,  though,  I  think,  not 
in  Gorboduc,  which  is  confessedly  before  our  author; 
yet  in  Hieronymo,  of  which  the  date  is  not  certain,  but 
which  there  is  reason  to  believe  at  least  as  old  as  his  i6o 
earliest  plays.  This  however  is  certain,  that  he  is  the 
first  who  taught  either  tragedy  or  comedy  to  please, 
there  being  no  theatrical  piece  of  any  older  writer,  of 
which  the  name  is  known  except  to  antiquaries  and  col- 
lectors of  books,  which  are  sought  because  they  are  165 
scarce,  and  would  not  have  been  scarce  had  they  been 
much  esteemed. 

To  him  we  must  ascribe  the  praise,  unless  Spenser 
may  divide  it  with  him,  of  having  first  discovered  to 
how  much  smoothness  and  harmony  the  English  Ian- 170 
guage  could  be  softened.  He  has  speeches,  perhaps 
sometimes  scenes,  which  have  all  the  delicacy  of  Rowe, 
without  his  effeminacy.  He  endeavours  indeed  com- 
monly to  strike  by  the  force  and  vigour  of  his  dialogue, 
but  he  never  executes  his  purpose  better  than  when  he  175 
tries  to  soothe  by  softness. 

Yet  it  must  be  at  last  confessed  that,  as  we  owe  every- 
thing to  him,  he  owes  something  to  us;  that,  if  much  of 
his  praise  is  paid  by  perception  and  judgment,  much  is 
likewise  given  by  custom  and  veneration.  We  fix  our  180 
eyes  upon  his  graces,  and  turn  them  from  his  deformi- 
ties, and  endure  in  him  what  we  should  in  another  loathe 
or  despise.  If  we  endured  without  praising,  respect  for 
the  father  of  our  drama  might  excuse  us;  but  I  have  seen, 
in  the  book  of  some  modern  critick,  a  collection  of  185 
anomalies,  which  show  that  he  has  corrupted  language  by 
every  mode  of  depravation,  but  which  his  admirer  has 
accumulated  as  a  monument  of  honour. 


JOHNSON  289 

He  has  scenes  of  undoubted  and  perpetual  excellence ; 
but  perhaps  not  one  play,  which,  if  it  were  now  exhibited  190 
as  the  work  of  a  contemporary  writer,  would  be  heard  to 
the  conclusion.     I  am,  indeed,  far  from  thinking  that 
his  works  were  wrought  to  his  own  ideas  of  perfection; 
when  they  were  such  as  would  satisfy  the  audience,  they 
satisfied  the  writer.     It  is  seldom  that  authors,  though  195 
more  studious  of   fame   than   Shakespeare,   rise  much 
above  the  standard  of  their  own  age;  to  add  a  little  to 
what  is  best  will  always  be  sufficient  for  present  praise, 
and  those  who  find  themselves  exalted  into  fame,  are  will- 
ing to  credit  their  encomiasts,  and  to  spare  the  labour  of  200 
contending  with  themselves. 

It  does  not  appear  that  Shakespeare  thought  his  works 
worthy  of  posterity,  that  he  levied  any  ideal  tribute  upon 
future  times,  or  had  any  further  prospect  than  of  present 
popularity  and  present  profit.  When  his  plays  had  been  205 
acted,  his  hope  was  at  an  end;  he  solicited  no  addition 
of  honour  from  the  reader.  He  therefore  made  no 
scruple  to  repeat  the  same  jests  in  many  dialogues,  or  to 
entangle  different  plots  by  the  same  knot  of  perplexity; 
which  may  be  at  least  forgiven  him  by  those  who  recol-  210 
lect,  that  of  Congreve's  four  comedies,  two  are  concluded 
by  a  marriage  in  a  mask,  by  a  deception,  which  perhaps 
never  happened,  and  which,  whether  likely  or  not,  he 
did  not  invent. 

So  careless  was  this  great  poet  of  future  fame  that,  215 
though  he  retired  to  ease  and  plenty,  while  he  was  yet 
little  "declined  into  the  vale  of  years,"  before  he  could 
be  disgusted  with  fatigue,  or  disabled  by  infirmity,  he 
made  no  collection  of  his  works,  nor  desired  to  rescue 
those  that  had  been  already  published  from  the  deprava-  220 
tions  that  obscured  them,  or  secure  to  the  rest  a  better 
u 


290  FROM   CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

destiny,  by  giving  them  to  the  world  in  their  genuine 
state. 

Of  the  plays  which  bear  the  name  of  Shakespeare  in 
the  late  editions,  the  greater  part  were  not  published  225 
till  about  seven  years  after  his  death;  and  the  few 
which  appeared  in  his  life  are  apparently  thrust  into 
the  world  without  the  care  of  the  author,  and  there- 
fore probably  without  his  knowledge. 


LETTER  TO  THE  EARL  OF  CHESTERFIELD 

Mv  Lord  :  I  have  lately  been  informed  by  the  proprie- 
tor of  The  World  that  two  papers  in  which  my  Dic- 
tionary is  recommended  to  the  public  were  written  by 
your  lordship.  To  be  so  distinguished  is  an  honor  which, 
being  very  little  accustomed  to  favors  from  the  great,  I  5 
know  not  well  how  to  receive,  or  in  what  terms  to 
acknowledge. 

When,  upon  some  slight  encouragement,  I  first  visited 
your  lordship,  I  was  overpowered,  like  the  rest  of  man- 
kind, by  the  enchantment  of  your  address,  and  could  10 
not  forbear  to  wish  that  I  might  boast  myself  le  vain- 
queur  du  vainqueur  de  la  terre  —  that  I  might  obtain  that 
regard  for  which  I  saw  the  world  contending;  but  I  found 
my  attendance  so  little  encouraged  that  neither  pride  nor 
modesty  would  suffer  me  to  continue  it.  When  once  I  15 
had  addressed  your  lordship  in  public,  I  had  exhausted 
all  the  art  of  pleasing  which  a  retired  and  uncourtly 
scholar  can  possess.  I  had  done  all  that  I  could;  and  no 
man  is  well  pleased  to  have  his  all  neglected,  be  it  ever 
so  little.  20 


JOHNSON  291 

Seven  years,  my  lord,  have  now  passed  since  I  waited 
in  your  outward  rooms,  or  was  repulsed  from  your  door; 
during  which  time  I  have  been  pushing  on  my  work 
through  difficulties,  of  which  it  is  useless  to  complain, 
and  have  brought  it,  at  last,  to  the  verge  of  publication,  25 
without  one  act  of  assistance,  one  word  of  encourage- 
ment, or  one  smile  of  favor.  Such  treatment  I  did  not 
expect,  for  I  never  had  a  patron  before. 

The  shepherd  in  Virgil  grew  at  last  acquainted  with 
Love,  and  found  him  a  native  of  the  rocks.  30 

Is  not  a  patron,  my  lord,  one  who  looks  with  uncon- 
cern on  a  man  struggling  for  life  in  the  water,  and,  when 
he  has  reached  the  ground,  encumbers  him  with  help? 
The  notice  which  you  have  been  pleased  to  take  of  my 
labors,  had  it  been  early,  had  been  kind;  but  it  has  been  35 
delayed  till  I  am  indifferent,  and  cannot  enjoy  it;  till  I 
am  solitary,  and  cannot  impart  it;  till  I  am  known,  and 
do  not  want  it.  I  hope  it  is  no  very  cynical  asperity,  not 
to  confess  obligations  when  no  benefit  has  been  received, 
or  to  be  unwilling  that  the  public  should  consider  me  as  40 
owing  that  to  a  patron  which  Providence  has  enabled 
me  to  do  for  myself. 

Having  carried  on  my  work  thus  far  with  so  little  ob- 
ligation to  any  favorer  of  learning,  I  shall  not  be  disap- 
pointed though  I  should  conclude  it,  if  less  be  possible,  45 
with  less;  for  I  have  long  been  wakened  from  that  dream 
of  hope  in  which  I  once  boasted  myself  with  so  much 
exultation,  my  lord, 

Your  lordship's  most  humble,  most  obedient  servant, 

Samuel  Johnson.  50 


THOMAS   GRAY 

(X7I6-X77X) 
ODE  ON   THE   SPRING 

Lo  !  where  the  rosy-bosom'd  Hours, 

Fair  Venus'  train,  appear, 
Disclose  the  long-expecting  flowers, 

And  wake  the  purple  year ! 
The  Attic  warbler  pours  her  throat. 
Responsive  to  the  cuckoo's  note, 

The  untaught  harmony  of  spring : 
While,  whispering  pleasure  as  they  fly. 
Cool  Zephyrs  thro'  the  clear  blue  sky 

Their  gathered  fragrance  fling. 

Where'er  the  oak's  thick  branches  stretch 

A  broader  browner  shade, 
Where'er  the  rude  and  moss-grown  beech 

O'er-canopies  the  glade. 
Beside  some  water's  rushy  brink 
With  me  the  Muse  shall  sit,  and  think 

(At  ease  reclined  in  rustic  state) 
How  vain  the  ardour  of  the  crowd, 
How  low,  how  little  are  the  proud, 

How  indigent  the  great ! 
292 


GRA Y  293 

Still  is  the  toiling  hand  of  Care ; 

The  panting  herds  repose : 
Yet  hark,  how  thro'  the  peopled  air 

The  busy  murmur  glows  ! 
The  insect-youth  are  on  the  wing,  25 

Eager  to  taste  the  honied  spring. 

And  float  amid  the  liquid  noon  : 
Some  lightly  o'er  the  current  skim. 
Some  shew  their  gayly-gilded  trim 

Quick-glancing  to  the  sun,  30 

To  Contemplation's  sober  eye 

Such  is  the  race  of  Man  : 
And  they  that  creep,  and  they  that  fly. 

Shall  end  where  they  began. 
Alike  the  Busy  and  the  Gay  35 

But  flutter  thro'  life's  little  day, 

In  Fortune's  varying  colours  drest : 
Brushed  by  the  hand  of  rough  Mischance, 
Or  chilled  by  Age,  their  airy  dance 

They  leave,  in  dust  to  rest.  40 

Methinks  I  hear,  in  accents  low. 

The  sportive  kind  reply  : 
Poor  moralist !  and  what  art  thou? 

A  solitary  fly  ! 
Thy  joys  no  glittering  female  meets,  45 

No  hive  hast  thou  of  hoarded  sweets. 

No  painted  plumage  to  display  : 
On  hasty  wings  thy  youth  is  flown ; 
Thy  sun  is  set,  thy  spring  is  gone  — 

We  frolic  while  'tis  May.  50 


294  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

ODE  ON  A  DISTANT  PROSPECT  OF  ETON  COLLEGE 

Ye  distant  spires,  ye  antique  towers, 

That  crown  the  watery  glade, 
Where  grateful  Science  still  adores 

Her  Henry's  holy  shade  ; 
And  ye,  that  from  the  stately  brow  5 

Of  Windsor's  heights  th'  expanse  below 

Of  grove,  of  lawn,  of  mead  survey, 
Whose  turf,  whose  shade,  whose  flowers  among 
Wanders  the  hoary  Thames  along 

His  silver-winding  way  :  10 

Ah,  happy  hills  !  ah,  pleasing  shade  ! 

Ah,  fields  beloved  in  vain  ! 
Where  once  my  careless  childhood  strayed, 

A  stranger  yet  to  pain  ! 
I  feel  the  gales  that  from  ye  blow  15 

A  momentary  bliss  bestow. 

As  waving  fresh  their  gladsome  wing, 
My  weary  soul  they  seem  to  soothe. 
And,  redolent  of  joy  and  youth. 

To  breathe  a  second  spring.  20 

Say,  father  Thames,  for  thou  hast  seen 

Full  many  a  sprightly  race 
Disporting  on  thy  margent  green. 

The  paths  of  pleasure  trace  ; 
Who  foremost  now  delight  to  cleave,  as 

With  pliant  arm,  thy  glassy  wave  ? 

The  captive  linnet  which  enthral ! 
What  idle  progeny  succeed 
To  chase  the  rolling  circle's  speed. 

Or  urge  the  flying  ball  ?  30 


GRA Y  295 

While  some  on  earnest  business  bent 

Tlieir  murmuring  labours  ply 
'Gainst  graver  hours  that  bring  constraint 

To  sweeten  liberty : 
Some  bold  adventurers  disdain  35 

The  limits  of  their  little  reign. 

And  unknown  regions  dare  descry : 
Still  as  they  run  they  look  behind, 
They  hear  a  voice  in  every  wind, 

And  snatch  a  fearful  joy.  40 

Gay  hope  is  theirs  by  fancy  fed, 

Less  pleasing  when  possest ; 
The  tear  forgot  as  soon  as  shed, 

The  sunshine  of  the  breast : 
Theirs  buxom  health,  of  rosy  hue,  45- 

Wild  wit,  invention  ever  new. 

And  Hvely  cheer,  of  vigour  bom ; 
The  thoughtless  day,  the  easy  night. 
The  spirits  pure,  the  slumbers  light. 

That  fly  th'  approach  of  mom.  50 

Alas  !  regardless  of  their  doom 

The  little  victims  play ; 
No  sense  have  they  of  ills  to  come, 

Nor  care  beyond  to-day  : 
Yet  see,  how  all  around  them  wait  55 

The  ministers  of  human  fate, 

And  black  Misfortune's  baleful  train  ! 
Ah,  show  them  where  in  ambush  stand. 
To  seize  their  prey,  the  murderous  band  ! 

Ah,  tell  them,  they  are  men  !  60 


296  FROM   CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

These  shall  the  fury  Passions  tear, 

The  vultures  of  the  mind, 
Disdainful  Anger,  pallid  Fear, 

And  Shame  that  skulks  behind  ; 
Or  pining  Love  shall  waste  their  youth,  65 

Or  Jealousy,  with  rankling  tooth, 

That  inly  gnaws  the  secret  heart ; 
And  Envy  wan,  and  faded  Care, 
Grim-visaged  comfortless  Despair, 

And  Sorrow's  piercing  dart  70 

Ambition  this  shall  tempt  to  rise, 

Then  whirl  the  wretch  from  high. 
To  bitter  Scorn  a  sacrifice. 

And  grinning  Infamy. 
The  stings  of  Falsehood  those  shall  try,  75 

And  hard  Unkindness*  altered  eye. 

That  mocks  the  tear  it  forced  to  flow ; 
And  keen  Remorse  with  blood  defiled. 
And  moody  Madness  laughing  wild 

Amid  severest  woe.  80 

Lo  !  in  the  vale  of  years  beneath 

A  griesly  troop  are  seen, 
The  painful  family  of  Death, 

More  hideous  than  their  queen  : 
This  racks  the  joints,  this  fires  the  veins,  85 

That  every  labouring  sinew  strains. 

Those  in  the  deeper  vitals  rage  : 
Lo  !  Poverty,  to  fill  the  band. 
That  numbs  the  soul  with  icy  hand. 

And  slow-consuming  Age.  90 


GJiAY  297 

To  each  his  sufferings  :  all  are  men, 

Condemn'd  alike  to  groan ; 
The  tender  for  another's  pain, 

The  unfeeling  for  his  own. 
Yet,  ah  !  why  should  they  know  their  fate,  95 

Since  sorrow  never  comes  too  late, 

And  happiness  too  swiftly  flies? 
Thought  would  destroy  their  paradise. 
No  more  ;  —  where  ignorance  is  bliss, 

'Tis  folly  to  be  wise.  100 


ELEGY  WRITTEN  IN  A  COUNTRY  CHURCHYARD 

The  curfew  tolls  the  knell  of  parting  day. 
The  lowing  herd  winds  slowly  o'er  the  lea, 

The  ploughman  homeward  plods  his  weary  way, 
And  leaves  the  world  to  darkness  and  to  me. 

Now  fades  the  glimmering  landscape  on  the  sight,        5 
And  all  the  air  a  solemn  stillness  holds, 

Save  where  the  beetle  wheels  his  droning  flight, 
And  drowsy  tinklings  lull  the  distant  folds  : 

Save  that  from  yonder  ivy-mantled  tower. 

The  moping  owl  does  to  the  moon  complain  10 

Of  such  as,  wandering  near  her  secret  bower. 
Molest  her  ancient  solitary  reign. 

Beneath  those  rugged  elms,  that  yew-tree's  shade, 
Where  heaves  the  turf  in  many  a  mouldering  heap, 

Each  in  his  narrow  cell  for  ever  laid,  15 

The  rude  forefathers  of  the  hamlet  sleep. 


298  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

The  breezy  call  of  incense-breathing  morn, 
.The  swallow  twittering  from  the  straw-built  shed, 

The  cock's  shrill  clarion,  or  the  echoing  horn, 

No  more  shall  rouse  them  from  their  lowly  bed.  20 

For  them  no  more  the  blazing  hearth  shall  bum, 
Or  busy  housewife  ply  her  evening  care ; 

No  children  run  to  lisp  their  sire's  return, 
Or  climb  his  knees  the  envied  kiss  to  share. 

Oft  did  the  harvest  to  their  sickle  yield,  25 

Their  furrow  oft  the  stubborn  glebe  has  broke ; 

How  jocund  did  they  drive  their  team  afield  ! 

How  bowed  the  woods  beneath  their  sturdy  stroke  ! 

Let  not  ambition  mock  their  useful  toil. 

Their  homely  joys,  and  destiny  obscure ;  .  30 

Nor  grandeur  hear  with  a  disdainful  smile 

The  short  and  simple  annals  of  the  poor. 

The  boast  of  heraldry,  the  pomp  of  power, 
And  all  that  beauty,  all  that  wealth  e'er  gave. 

Await  alike  the  inevitable  hour.  35 

The  paths  of  glory  lead  but  to  the  grave. 

Nor  you,  ye  proud,  impute  to  these  the  fault, 
If  memory  o'er  their  tomb  no  trophies  raise, 

Where  through  the  long-drawn  aisle  and  fretted  vault 
The  pealing  anthem  swells  the  note  of  praise.  40 

Can  storied  urn  or  animated  bust 

Back  to  its  mansion  call  the  fleeting  breath? 

Can  honour's  voice  provoke  the  silent  dust. 
Or  flattery  soothe  the  dull  cold  ear  of  death  ? 


GJ?AV 


299 


Perhaps  in  this  neglected  spot  is  laid  45 

Some  heart  once  pregnant  with  celestial  fire ; 

Hands,  that  the  rod  of  empire  might  have  swayed 
Or  waked  to  ecstacy  the  living  lyre. 

But  knowledge  to  their  eyes  her  ample  page 

Rich  with  the  spoils  of  time  did  ne'er  unroll ;  50 

Chill  penury  repressed  their  noble  rage, 
And  froze  the  genial  current  of  the  soul. 

Full  many  a  gem  of  purest  ray  serene 

The  dark  unfathomed  caves  of  ocean  bear ; 

Full  many  a  flower  is  born  to  blush  unseen,  55 

And  waste  its  sweetness  on  the  desert  air. 

Some  village  Hampden,  that,  with  dauntless  breast, 

The  little  tyrant  of  his  fields  withstood, 
Some  mute  inglorious  Milton  here  may  rest. 

Some  Cromwell  guiltless  of  his  country's  blood.       60 

The  applause  of  listening  senates  to  command. 
The  threats  of  pain  and  ruin  to  despise. 

To  scatter  plenty  o'er  a  smiling  land, 

And  read  their  history  in  a  nation's  eyes. 

Their  lot  forbade  ;  nor  circumscribed  alone  65 

Their  growing  virtues,  but  their  crimes  confined  ; 

Forbade  to  wade  thro'  slaughter  to  a  throne, 
And  shut  the  gates  of  mercy  on  mankind, 

The  struggling  pangs  of  conscious  truth  to  hide, 

To  quench  the  blushes  of  ingenuous  shame,  70 

Or  heap  the  shrine  of  luxury  and  pride 
With  incense  kindled  at  the  Muse's  flame. 


300  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

Far  from  the  madding  crowd's  ignoble  strife, 
Their  sober  wishes  never  learned  to  stray ; 

Along  the  cool  sequestered  vale  of  life  75 

They  kept  the  noiseless  tenour  of  their  way. 

Yet  ev'n  these  bones  from  insult  to  protect 

Some  frail  memorial  still  erected  nigh. 
With  uncouth  rhymes  and  shapeless  sculpture  decked, 

Implores  the  passing  tribute  of  a  sigh.  80 

Their  name,  their  years,  spelt  by  the  unlettered  Muse, 

The  place  of  fame  and  elegy  supply  : 
And  many  a  holy  text  around  she  strews, 

That  teach  the  rustic  moralist  to  die. 

For  who,  to  dumb  forgetfulness  a  prey,  85 

This  pleasing  anxious  being  e'er  resigned. 

Left  the  warm  precincts  of  the  cheerful  day. 
Nor  cast  one  longing  lingering  look  behind  ? 

On  some  fond  breast  the  parting  soul  relies. 

Some  pious  drops  the  closing  eye  requires ;  90 

E'en  from  the  tomb  the  voice  of  nature  cries, 
E'en  in  our  ashes  live  their  wonted  fires. 

For  thee,  who,  mindful  of  th'  unhonoured  dead. 
Dost  in  these  lines  their  artless  tale  relate ; 

If  chance,  by  lonely  contemplation  led,  95 

Some  kindred  spirit  shall  enquire  thy  fate,  — 

Haply  some  hoary-headed  swain  may  say, 
'Oft  have  we  seen  him  at  the  peep  of  dawn 

Brushing  with  hasty  steps  the  dews  away, 

To  meet  the  sun  upon  the  upland  lawn.  100 


GRA  y  301 

'There  at  the  foot  of  yonder  nodding  beech, 
That  wreathes  its  old  fantastic  roots  so  high, 

His  listless  length  at  noontide  would  he  stretch, 
And  pore  upon  the  brook  that  babbles  by. 

*  Hard  by  yon  wood,  now  smiling  as  in  scorn,  105 

Muttering  his  wayward  fancies  he  would  rove ; 

Now  drooping,  woful-wan,  like  one  forlorn, 

Or  crazed  with  care,  or  crossed  in  hopeless  love. 

'One  morn  I  missed  him  on  the  customed  hill, 

Along  the  heath,  and  near  his  favourite  tree ;  no 

Another  came ;  nor  yet  beside  the  rill. 
Nor  up  the  lawn,  nor  at  the  wood  was  he : 

'The  next,  with  dirges  due  in  sad  array 

Slow  through  the  church-way  path  we  saw  him  borne :  — 
Approach  and  read  (for  thou  canst  read)  the  lay  115 

Graved  on  the  stone  beneath  yon  aged  thorn.' 


T/ie  Epitaph 

Here  rests  his  head  upon  the  lap  of  earth 
A  youth,  to  fortune  and  to  fame  unknown  : 

Fair  science  frowned  not  on  his  humble  birth, 
And  melancholy  marked  him  for  her  own. 

Large  was  his  bounty,  and  his  soul  sincere, 
Heaven  did  a  recompense  as  largely  send : 

He  gave  to  misery  (all  he  had)  a  tear, 

He  gained  from  heaven  ('twas  all  he  wished)  a  friend. 


302  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

No  farther  seek  his  merits  to  disclose,  125 

Or  draw  his  frailties  from  their  dread  abode, 

(There  they  alike  in  trembling  hope  repose,) 
The  bosom  of  his  Father  and  his  God. 


MILTON 


Nor  second  he  that  rode  sublime 
Upon  the  seraph-wings  of  Ecstasy, 
The  secret  of  th'  abyss  to  spy. 
He  passed  the  flaming  bounds  of  place  and  time 
The  living  throne,  the  sapphire-blaze, 
Where  angels  tremble,  while  they  gaze. 
He  saw ;  but,  blasted  with  excess  of  light, 
Closed  his  eyes  in  endless  night. 


JOURNAL   IN   THE   LAKES 

From  Keswick  to  Kendal 

October  8th.  Bid  farewell  to  Keswick  and  took  the 
Ambleside  road  in  a  gloomy  morning ;  wind  east  and 
afterwards  north  east ;  about  two  miles  from  the  town 
mounted  an  eminence  called  Castle  Rig^,  and  the  sun 
breaking  out  discovered  the  most  beautiful  view  I  have 
yet  seen  of  the  whole  valley  behind  me,  the  two  lakes, 
the  river,  the  mountain,  all  in  their  glory  !  had  almost  a 
mind  to  have  gone  back  again.  The  road  in  some  little 
patches  is  not  completed,  but  good  country  road  through 


GRA Y  303 

sound,  but  narrow  and  stony  lanes,  very  safe  in  broad  10 
daylight.     This  is   the    case   about   Caiiseway-foot,  and 
among  Naddle-fells   to  Latithwaite.     The  vale   you  go 
in  has  little  breadth,  the  mountains  are  vast  and  rocky, 
the  fields  little  and  poor,  and  the  inhabitants  are  now 
making  hay,  and  see  not  the  sun  by  two  hours  in  a  day  15 
so  long  as  at  Keswick.     Came  to  the  foot  of  Helvellyn, 
along  which  runs  an  excellent  road,  looking  down  from  a 
little  height  on  Lee's-water,  (called  also  Thirlmeer,  or 
Wiborn-water)  and  soon  descending  on  its  margin.    The 
lake  from  its  depth  looks  black,  (though  really  as  clear  20 
as  glass)  and  from  the  gloom  of  the  vast  crags,  that  scowl 
over  it :  it  is  narrow  and  about  three  miles  long,  resem- 
bling a  river  in  its  course ;  little  shining  torrents  hurry 
down  the  rocks  to  join  it,  with  not  a  bush  to  overshadow 
them,  or  cover  their  march  :  all  is  rock  and  loose  stones  25 
up  to  the  very  brow,  which  Hes  so  near  your  way,  that  not 
above  half  the  height  of  Helvellyn  can  be  seen.     (To  be 
continued,  but  now  we  have  not  franks.) 

Past  by  the  Httle  chapel  of  Wiborn,  out  of  which  the 
Sunday  congregation  were  then  issuing.    Past  a  beck  near  30 
Dunmail-raise  and  entered  Westmoreland  a  second  time, 
now  begin  to  see  /^.f/w-rra^  distinguished  from  its  rugged 
neighbours  not  so  much  by  its  height,  as  by  the  strange 
broken  outline  of  its  top,  like  some  gigantic  building 
demolished,  and  the  stones  that  composed  it  flung  across  35 
each  other  in  wild  confusion.     Just  beyond  it  opens  one 
of  the  sweetest  landscapes  that  art  ever  attempted  to  imi- 
tate.   The  bosom  of  the  mountains  spreading  here  into  a 
broad  bason  discovers  in  the  midst  Grastnere-wa/er ;  its 
margin  is  hollowed  into  small  bays  with  bold  eminences  :  40 
some  of  them  rocks,  some  of  soft  turf  that  half  conceal 
and  vary  the  figure  of  the  little  lake  they  command. 


304  FROM   CHAUCER   TO  ARNOLD 

From  the  shore  a  low  promontory  pushes  itself  far  into 
the  water,  and  on  it  stands  a  white  village  with  the  parish- 
church  rising  in  the  midst  of  it,  hanging  enclosures,  corn-  45 
fields,  and  meadows  green  as  an  emerald,  with  their  trees 
and  hedges,  and  cattle  fill  up  the  whole  space  from  the 
edge  of  the  water.     Just  opposite  to  you  is  a  large  farm- 
house at  the  bottom  of  a  steep  smooth  lawn  embosomed 
in  old  woods,  which  cHmb  half  way  up  the  mountain's  50 
side,  and  discover  above  them  a  broken  line  of  crags, 
that  crown  the  scene.     Not  a  single  red  tile,  no  flaming 
gentleman's  house,  or  garden  walks  break  in  upon  the 
repose  of  this  Httle  unsuspected  paradise,  but  all  is  peace, 
rusticity,  and  happy  poverty  in  its  neatest,  most  becoming  55 
attire. 

The  road  winds  here  over  Grasmere-hill,  whose  rocks 
soon  conceal  the  water  from  your  sight,  yet  it  is  con- 
tinued along  behind  them,  and  contracting  itself  to  a 
river  communicates  with  Ridale-tuater,  another  small  60 
lake,  but  of  inferior  size  and  beauty ;  it  seems  shallow 
too,  for  large  patches  of  reeds  appear  pretty  far  within 
it.  Into  this  vale  the  road  descends :  on  the  opposite 
banks  large  and  ancient  woods  mount  up  the  hills,  and 
just  to  the  left  of  our  way  stands  Ridale-hall,  the  family  65 
seat  of  Sir  Mic.  Fleming,  but  now  a  farm-house,  a  large 
old  fashioned  fabric  surrounded  with  wood,  and  not  much 
too  good  for  its  present  destination.  Sir  Michael  is  now 
on  his  travels,  and  all  this  timber  far  and  wide  belongs  to 
him.  I  tremble  for  it  when  he  returns.  Near  the  house  70 
rises  a  huge  crag  called  Ridale-head,  which  is  said  to 
command  a  full  view  of  Wynander-tnerf,  and  I  doubt  it 
not,  for  within  a  mile  that  great  lake  is  visible  even  from 
the  road.  As  to  going  up  the  crag,  one  might  as  well 
go  up  Skiddaw.  75 


WILLIAM   COLLINS 

(1721-1759) 

ODE   TO   LIBERTY 
Strophe 

Who  shall  awake  the  Spartan  fife, 

And  call  in  solemn  sounds  to  life, 
The  youths,  whose  locks  divinely  spreading, 

Like  vernal  hyacinths  in  sullen  hue, 
At  once  the  breath  of  fear  and  virtue  shedding,  5 

Applauding  freedom  loved  of  old  to  view? 
What  new  Alcaeus,  fancy-blest. 
Shall  sing  the  sword,  in  myrtles  drest. 

At  wisdom's  shrine  awhile  its  flame  concealing, 
(What  place  so  fit  to  seal  a  deed  renowned?)  10 

Till  she  her  brightest  lightnings  round  revealing, 
It  leaped  in  glory  forth  and  dealt  her  prompted  wound ! 
O  goddess,  in  that  feeling  hour. 
When  most  its  sounds  would  court  thy  ears, 

Let  not  my  shell's  misguided  power  15 

E'er  draw  thy  sad,  thy  mindful  tears. 
No,  freedom,  no,  I  will  not  tell 
How  Rome,  before  thy  weeping  face. 
With  heaviest  sound,  a  giant-statue,  fell. 
Pushed  by  a  wild  and  artless  race  20 

From  off  its  wide  ambitious  base, 
X  305 


306  FROM  CHAUCER    TO   ARNOLD 

When  time  his  northern  sons  of  spoil  awoke, 

And  all  the  blended  work  of  strength  and  grace, 
With  many  a  rude  repeated  stroke, 

And  many  a  barbarous  yell,  to  thousand  fragments  broke.  25 

Epode 

Yet,  even  where'er  the  least  appeared. 

The  admiring  world  thy  hand  revered; 

Still  'midst  the  scattered  states  around, 

Some  remnants  of  her  strength  were  found; 

They  saw,  by  what  escaped  the  storm,  30 

How  wondrous  rose  her  perfect  form; 

How  in  the  great,  the  laboured  whole, 

Each  mighty  master  poured  his  soul ! 

For  sunny  Florence,  seat  of  art. 

Beneath  her  vines  preserved  a  part,  35 

Till  they,  whom  science  loved  to  name, 

(O  who  could  fear  it?)  quenched  her  flame. 

And  lo,  an  humbler  relic  laid 

In  jealous  Pisa's  olive  shade! 

See  small  Marino  joins  the  theme,  40 

Though  least,  not  last  in  thy  esteem : 

Strike,  louder  strike  the  ennobling  strings 

To  those,  whose  merchant  sons  were  kings; 

To  him,  who,  decked  with  pearly  pride, 

In  Adria  weds  his  green-haired  bride ;  45 

Hail,  port  of  glory,  wealth,  and  pleasure, 

Ne'er  let  me  change  this  Lydian  measure: 

Nor  e'er  her  former  pride  relate, 

To  sad  Liguria's  bleeding  state. 

Ah  no !  more  pleased  thy  haunts  I  seek  50 

On  wild  Helvetia's  mountains  bleak: 


COLLINS  307 

(Where,  when  the  favoured  of  thy  choice, 

The  daring  archer  heard  thy  voice; 

Forth  from  his  eyrie  roused  in  dread 

The  ravening  eagle  northward  fled;)  55 

Or  dwell  in  willowed  meads  more  near 

With  those  to  whom  the  stork  is  dear: 

Those  whom  the  rod  of  Alva  bruised, 

Whose  crown  a  British  queen  refused! 

The  magic  works,  thou  feel'st  the  strains,  60 

One  holier  name  alone  remains; 

The  perfect  spell  shall  then  avail, 

Hail,  nymph,  adored  by  Britain,  hail ! 

Antistrophe 

Beyond  the  measure  vast  of  thought, 
The  works  the  wizard  time  has  wrought !  65 

The  Gaul,  'tis  held  of  antique  story, 
Saw  Britain  linked  to  his  now  adverse  strand. 

No  sea  between,  nor  cliff  sublime  and  hoary, 
He  passed  with  unwet  feet  through  all  our  land. 

To  the  blown  Baltic  then,  they  say,  70 

The  wild  waves  found  another  way. 
Where  Orcas  howls,  his  wolfish  mountains  rounding; 

Till  all  the  banded  west  at  once  'gan  rise, 
A  wide  wild  storm  even  nature's  self  confounding. 

Withering  her  giant  sons  with  strange  uncouth  surprise,  7; 
This  pillared  earth  so  firm  and  wide. 
By  winds  and  inward  labours  torn, 
In  thunders  dread  was  pushed  aside. 

And  down  the  shouldering  billows  borne. 
And  see,  like  gems,  her  laughing  train,  80 

The  little  isles  on  every  side. 


308  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

Mona,  once  hid  from  those  who  search  the  main, 

Where  thousand  elfin  shapes  abide, 
And  Wight  who  checks  the  westering  tide, 

For  thee  consenting  heaven  has  each  bestowed,  85 

A  fair  attendant  on  her  sovereign  pride : 

To  thee  this  blest  divorce  she  owed. 
For  thou  hast  made  her  vales  thy  loved,  thy  last  abode. 

Second  Epode 

Then  too,  'tis  said,  an  hoary  pile, 

'Midst  the  green  navel  of  our  isle,  90 

Thy  shrine  in  some  religious  wood, 

O  soul-enforcing  goddess,  stood ! 

There  oft  the  painted  native's  feet 

Were  wont  thy  form  celestial  meet: 

Though  now  with  hopeless  toil  we  trace  95 

Time's  backward  rolls,  to  find  its  place; 

Whether  the  fiery-tressed  Dane, 

Or  Roman's  self,  o'erturned  the  fane, 

Or  in  what  heaven-left  age  it  fell, 

'Twere  hard  for  modern  song  to  tell.  100 

Yet  still,  if  truth  those  beams  infuse. 

Which  guide  at  once,  and  charm  the  muse. 

Beyond  yon  braided  clouds  that  lie, 

Paving  the  light-embroidered  sky. 

Amidst  the  bright  pavilioned  plains,  105 

The  beauteous  model  still  remains. 

There,  happier  than  in  islands  blest, 

Or  bowers  by  spring  or  Hebe  drest, 

The  chiefs  who  fill  our  Albion's  story, 

In  warlike  weeds,  retired  in  glory,  no 

Hear  their  consorted  Druids  sing 


COLLINS  309 

Their  triumphs  to  the  immortal  string. 

How  may  the  poet  now  unfold 
What  never  tongue  or  numbers  told  ? 
How  learn,  delighted  and  amazed,  115 

What  hands  unknown  that  fabric  raised? 
Even  now  before  his  favoured  eyes, 
In  Gothic  pride,  it  seems  to  rise ! 
Yet  Graecia's  graceful  orders  join, 
Majestic  through  the  mixed  design:  120 

The  secret  builder  new  to  choose 
Each  sphere-found  gem  of  richest  hues; 
Whate'er  heaven's  purer  mould  contains, 
When  nearer  suns  emblaze  its  veins; 
There  on  the  walls  the  patriot's  sight  125 

May  ever  hang  with  fresh  delight, 
And,  graved  with  some  prophetic  rage. 
Read  Albion's  fame  through  every  age. 

Ye  forms  divine,  ye  laureat  band. 
That  near  her  inmost  altar  stand !  130 

Now  soothe  her  to  her  blissful  train 
Blithe  concord's  social  form  to  gain; 
Concord,  whose  myrtle  wand  can  steep 
Even  anger's  bloodshot  eyes  in  sleep; 
Before  whose  breathing  bosom's  balm  135 

Rage  drops  his  steel,  and  storms  grow  calm; 
Her  let  our  sires  and  matrons  hoar 
Welcome  to  Britain's  ravaged  shore; 
Our  youths,  enamoured  of  the  fair. 
Play  with  the  tangles  of  her  hair,  140 

Till,  in  one  loud  applauding  sound. 
The  nations  shout  to  her  around, 
O  how  supremely  art  thou  blest, 
Thou,  lady,  thou  shalt  rule  the  west ! 


310  FROM   CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

ODE   TO   EVENING 

If  aught  of  oaten  stop,  or  pastoral  song, 

May  hope,  chaste  eve  to  soothe  thy  modest  ear, 

Like  thy  own  solemn  springs, 

Thy  springs,  and  dying  gales, 

O  nymph  reserved,  while  now  the  bright-haired  sun       5 
Sits  in  yon  western  tent, whose  cloudy  skirts, 

With  brede  ethereal  wove, 

O'erhang  his  wavy  bed: 

Now  air  is  hushed,  save  where  the  weak-eyed  bat 

With  short,  shrill  shriek,  flits  by  on  leathern  wing;        10 

Or  where  the  beetle  winds 

His  small  but  sullen  horn. 

As  oft  he  rises  'midst  the  twilight  path, 
Against  the  pilgrim  borne  in  heedless  hum: 

Now  teach  me,  maid  composed,  15 

To  breathe  some  softened  strain. 

Whose  numbers,  stealing  through  thy  darkening  vale, 
May,  not  unseemly,  with  its  stillness  suit, 

As,  musing  slow,  1  hail 

Thy  genial  loved  return !  20 

For  when  thy  folding  star  arising  shows 
His  paly  circlet,  at  his  warning  lamp 

The  fragrant  hours,  and  elves 

Who  slept  in  flowers  the  day, 


COLLINS  3  1 1 

And  many  a  nymph  who  wreathes  her  brows  with  sedge  25 
And  sheds  the  freshening  dew,  and,  lovelier  still, 

The  pensive  pleasures  sweet 

Prepare  thy  shadowy  car. 

Then  leap,  calm  votaress,  where  some  sheety  lake 

Cheers  the  lone  heath,  or  some  time-hallowed  pile,  30 

Or  upland  fallows  grey 

Reflect  its  last  cool  gleam. 

But  when  chill  blustering  winds,  or  driving  rain, 
Forbid  my  willing  feet,  be  mine  the  hut, 

That  from  the  mountain's  side,  35 

Views  wilds,  and  swelling  flood, 

And  hamlets  brown,  and  dim-discovered  spires; 
And  hears  their  simple  bell,  and  marks  o'er  all 

Thy  dewy  fingers  draw 

The  gradual  dusky  veil.  40 

^Vhile  spring  shall  pour  his  showers,  as  oft  he  wont. 
And  bathe  thy  breathing  tresses,  meekest  eve! 

While  summer  loves  to  sport 

Beneath  thy  lingering  light; 

While  sallow  autumn  fills  thy  lap  with  leaves;  45 

Or  winter,  yelling  through  the  troublous  air, 

Affrights  thy  shrinking  train. 

And  rudely  rends  thy  robes; 

So  long,  sure-found  beneath  the  sylvan  shed, 

Shall  fancy,  friendship,  science,  rose-lipped  health,  50 

Thy  gentlest  influence  own. 

And  hymn  thy  favourite  name! 


312  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

ODE   ON   THE   DEATH   OF   MR.   THOMSON 

In  yonder  grave  a  druid  lies, 

Where  slowly  winds  the  stealing  wave; 

The  year's  best  sweets  shall  duteous  rise 
To  deck  its  poet's  sylvan  grave. 

In  yon  deep  bed  of  whispering  reeds 

His  airy  harp  shall  now  be  laid, 
That  he,  whose  heart  in  sorrow  bleeds, 

May  love  through  life  the  soothing  shade. 

Then  maids  and  youths  shall  linger  here, 
And,  while  its  sounds  at  distance  swell, 

Shall  sadly  seem  in  pity's  ear 

To  hear  the  woodland  pilgrim's  knell. 

Remembrance  oft  shall  haunt  the  shore 
When  Thames  in  summer  wreaths  is  drest. 

And  oft  suspend  the  dashing  oar. 
To  bid  his  gentle  spirit  rest ! 

And  oft,  as  ease  and  health  retire 

To  breezy  lawn,  or  forest  deep, 
The  friend  shall  view  yon  whitening  spire. 

And  'mid  the  varied  landscape  weep. 

But  thou,  who  own' St  that  earthly  bed, 
Ah!  what  will  every  dirge  avail; 

Or  tears,  which  love  and  pity  shed. 
That  mourn  beneath  the  gliding  sail? 


COLLINS  313 

Yet  lives  there  one  whose  heedless  eye  25 

Shall  scorn  thy  pale  shrine  glimmering  near? 

With  him,  sweet  bard,  may  fancy  die, 
And  joy  desert  the  blooming  year. 

But  thou,  lorn  stream,  whose  sullen  tide 

No  sedge-crowned  sisters  now  attend,  30 

Now  waft  me  from  the  green  hill's  side. 
Whose  cold  turf  hides  the  buried  friend ! 

And  see  —  the  fairy  valleys  fade; 

Dun  night  has  veiled  the  solemn  view ! 
Yet  once  again,  dear  parted  shade,  35 

Meek  nature's  child,  again  adieu! 

The  genial  meads,  assigned  to  bless 
Thy  life,  shall  mourn  thy  early  doom ; 

Their  hinds  and  shepherd-girls  shall  dress, 

With  simple  hands,  thy  rural  tomb.  40 

Long,  long,  thy  stone  and  pointed  clay 

Shall  melt  the  musing  Briton's  eyes: 
O  vales  and  wild  woods !  shall  he  say, 

In  yonder  grave  your  druid  lies ! 


OLIVER   GOLDSMITH 

(1728-1774) 

THE   DESERTED   VILLAGE 
Contrasts 

Sweet  was  the  sound  when  oft,  at  evening's  close. 
Up  yonder  hill  the  village  murmur  rose. 
There  as  I  passed  with  careless  steps  and  slow, 
The  mingling  notes  came  softened  from  below; 
The  swain  responsive  as  the  milkmaid  sung,  5 

The  sober  herd  that  lowed  to  meet  their  young, 
The  noisy  geese  that  gabbled  o'er  the  pool. 
The  playful  children  just  let  loose  from  school, 
The  watch-dog's  voice  that  bayed  the  whispering  wind, 
And  the  loud  laugh  that  spoke  the  vacant  mind,  —  10 

These  all  in  sweet  confusion  sought  the  shade, 
And  filled  each  pause  the  nightingale  had  made. 
But  now  the  sounds  of  population  fail, 
No  cheerful  murmurs  fluctuate  in  the  gale, 
No  busy  steps  the  grass-grown  footway  tread,  15 

For  all  the  bloomy  flush  of  life  is  fled. 
All  but  yon  widowed,  solitary  thing 
That  feebly  bends  beside  the  plashy  spring: 
She,  wretched  matron,  forced  in  age,  for  bread, 
To  strip  the  brook  with  mantling  cresses  spread,  20 

To  pick  her  wintry  fagot  from  the  thorn, 
To  seek  her  nightly  shed,  and  weep  till  morn; 

3»4 


GOLDSMITH  3 1  5 

She  only  left  of  all  the  harmless  train, 
The  sad  historian  of  the  pensive  plain. 

Near  yonder  copse,  where  once  the  garden  smiled,        25 
And  still  where  many  a  garden-flower  grows  wild; 
There,  where  a  few  torn  shrubs  the  place  disclose, 
The  village  preacher's  modest  mansion  rose. 
A  man  he  was  to  all  the  country  dear, 

And  passing  rich  with  forty  pounds  a  year;  30 

Remote  from  towns  he  ran  his  godly  race. 
Nor  e'er  had  changed,  nor  wished  to  change,  his  place; 
Unpractised  he  to  fawn,  or  seek  for  power, 
By  doctrines  fashioned  to  the  varying  hour; 
Far  other  aims  his  heart  had  learned  to  prize,  35 

More  skilled  to  raise  the  wretched  than  to  rise. 
His  house  was  known  to  all  the  vagrant  train; 
He  chid  their  wanderings,  but  relieved  their  pain : 
The  long-remembered  beggar  was  his  guest. 
Whose  beard  descending  swept  his  aged  breast;  40 

The  ruined  spendthrift,  now  no  longer  proud. 
Claimed  kindred  there,  and  had  his  claims  allowed; 
The  broken  soldier,  kindly  bade  to  stay. 
Sat  by  his  fire,  and  talked  the  night  away. 
Wept  o'er  his  wounds  or  tales  of  sorrow  done,  45 

Shouldered  his  crutch  and  showed  how  fields  were  won. 
Pleased  with  his  guests,  the  good  man  learned  to  glow, 
And  quite  forgot  their  vices  in  their  woe ; 
Careless  their  merits  or  their  faults  to  scan. 
His  pity  gave  ere  charity  began.  50 

Thus  to  relieve  the  wretched  was  his  pride. 
And  e'en  his  failings  leaned  to  virtue's  side; 
But  in  his  duty  prompt  at  every  call. 
He  watched  and  wept,  he  prayed  and  felt  for  all; 
And,  as  a  bird  each  fond  endearment  tries  55 


3l6  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

To  tempt  its  new-fledged  offspring  to  the  skies, 
He  tried  each  art,  reproved  each  dull  delay, 
Allured  to  brighter  worlds,  and  led  the  way. 

Beside  the  bed  where  parting  life  was  laid, 
And  sorrow,  guilt,  and  pain  by  turns  dismayed,  60 

The  reverend  champion  stood.     At  his  control 
Despair  and  anguish  fled  the  struggling  soul; 
Comfort  came  down  the  trembling  wretch  to  raise. 
And  his  last  faltering  accents  whispered  praise. 

At  church,  with  meek  and  unaffected  grace,  65 

His  looks  adorned  the  venerable  place : 
Truth  from  his  lips  prevailed  with  double  sway. 
And  fools  who  came  to  scoff  remained  to  pray. 
The  service  past,  around  the  pious  man. 
With  steady  zeal,  each  honest  rustic  ran;  70 

Even  children  followed  with  endearing  wile, 
And  plucked  his  gown  to  share  the  good  man's  smile. 
His  ready  smile  a  parent's  warmth  expressed; 
Their  welfare  pleased  him,  and  their  cares  distressed: 
To  them  his  heart,  his  love,  his  griefs  were  given,  75 

But  all  his  serious  thoughts  had  rest  in  heaven. 
As  some  tall  cliff  that  lifts  its  awful  form. 
Swells  from  the  vale,  and  midway  leaves  the  storm, 
Though  round  its  breast  the  rolling  clouds  are  spread. 
Eternal  sunshine  settles  on  its  head,  80 

Beside  yon  straggling  fence  that  skirts  the  way, 
With  blossomed  furze  unprofitably  gay. 
There  in  his  noisy  mansion,  skilled  to  rule. 
The  village  master  taught  his  Httle  school. 
A  man  severe  he  was,  and  stern  to  view;  85 

I  knew  him  well,  and  every  truant  knew; 
Well  had  the  boding  tremblers  learned  to  trace 
The  day's  disasters  in  his  morning  face; 


GOLDSMITH  317 

Full  well  they  laughed  with  counterfeited  glee 

At  all  his  jokes,  for  many  a  joke  had  he;  90 

Full  well  the  busy  whisper  circling  round 

Conveyed  the  dismal  tidings  when  he  frowned. 

Yet  he  was  kind,  or,  if  severe  in  aught, 

The  love  he  bore  to  learning  was  in  fault; 

The  village  all  declared  how  much  he  knew;  95 

'Twas  certain  he  could  write,  and  cipher  too; 

Lands  he  could  measure,  terms  and  tides  presage, 

And  e'en  the  story  ran  that  he  could  gauge: 

In  arguing,  too,  the  parson  owned  his  skill; 

For  e'en  though  vanquished  he  could  argue  still;  100 

While  words  of  learned  length  and  thundering  sound 

Amazed  the  gazing  rustics  ranged  around; 

And  still  they  gazed,  and  still  the  wonder  grew 

That  one  small  head  could  carry  all  he  knew. 

But  past  is  all  his  fame.     The  very  spot  105 

Where  many  a  time  he  triumphed  is  forgot. 
Near  yonder  thorn  that  lifts  its  head  on  high. 
Where  once  the  sign-post  caught  the  passing  eye. 
Low  lies  that  house  where  nut-brown  draughts  inspired, 
Where  graybeard  mirth  and  smiling  toil  retired,  no 

Where  village  statesmen  talked  with  looks  profound, 
And  news  much  older  than  their  ale  went  round. 
Imagination  fondly  stoops  to  trace 
The  parlor  splendor  of  that  festive  place : 
The  whitewashed  wall,  the  nicely  sanded  floor,  115 

The  varnished  clock  that  clicked  behind  the  door; 
The  chest  contrived  a  double  debt  to  pay, 
A  bed  by  night,  a  chest  of  drawers  by  day; 
The  pictures  placed  for  ornament  and  use. 
The  twelve  good  rules,  the  royal  game  of  goose;  120 

The  hearth,  except  when  winter  chilled  the  day, 


3l8  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

With  aspen  boughs  and  flowers  and  fennel  gay; 
While  broken  teacups,  wisely  kept  for  show, 
Ranged  o'er  the  chimney,  glistened  in  a  row. 

Vain  transitory  splendors !  could  not  all  125 

Reprieve  the  tottering  mansion  from  its  fall? 
Obscure  it  sinks,  nor  shall  it  more  impart 
An  hour's  importance  to  the  poor  man's  heart. 
Thither  no  more  the  peasant  shall  repair 
To  sweet  oblivion  of  his  daily  care;  133 

No  more  the  farmer's  news,  the  barber's  tale, 
No  more  the  woodman's  ballad  shall  prevail; 
No  more  the  smith  his  dusky  brow  shall  clear, 
Relax  his  ponderous  strength,  and  lean  to  hear; 
The  host  himself  no  longer  shall  be  found  135 

Careful  to  see  the  mantling  bliss  go  round; 
Nor  the  coy  maid,  half-willing  to  be  pressed, 
Shall  kiss  the  cup  to  pass  it  to  the  rest. 


RETALIATION 

Edmund  Burke 

Here  lies  our  good  Edmund,  whose  genius  was  such, 
We  scarcely  can  praise  it,  or  blame  it,  too  much; 
Who,  bom  for  the  universe,  narrowed  his  mind. 
And  to  party  gave  up  what  was  meant  for  mankind. 
Though  fraught  with  all  learning,  yet  straining  his  throat,    5 
To  persuade  Tommy  Townshend  to  lend  him  a  vote: 
Who,  too  deep  for  his  hearers,  still  went  on  refining. 
And  thought  of  convincing,  while  they  thought  of  dining; 
Though  equal  to  all  things,  for  all  things  unfit, 
Too  nice  for  a  statesman,  too  proud  for  a  wit;  10 


GOLDSMITH  319 

For  a  patriot  too  cool;  for  a  drudge  disobedient; 
And  too  fond  of  the  right  to  pursue  the  expedient. 
In  short,  'twas  his  fate,  unemployed,  or  in  place,  sir, 
To  eat  mutton  cold,  and  cut  blocks  with  a  razor. 

David  Garrick 

Here  lies  David  Garrick,  describe  me  who  can, 
An  abridgment  of  all  that  was  pleasant  in  man; 
As  an  actor,  confessed  without  rival  to  shine : 
As  a  wit,  if  not  first,  in  the  very  first  line: 
Yet,  with  talents  like  these,  and  an  excellent  heart,  5 

The  man  had  his  failings,  a  dupe  to  his  art. 
Like  an  ill-judging  beauty,  his  colours  he  spread, 
And  beplastered  with  rouge  his  own  natural  red. 
On  the  stage  he  was  natural,  simple,  affecting; 
'Twas  only  that,  when  he  was  off,  he  was  acting.  10 

With  no  reason  on  earth  to  go  out  of  his  way, 
He  turned  and  he  varied  full  ten  times  a  day: 
Though  secure  of  our  hearts,  yet  confoundedly  sick, 
If  they  were  not  his  own  by  finessing  and  trick : 
He  cast  off  his  friends,  as  a  huntsman  his  pack,  15 

For  he  knew  when  he  pleased  he  could  whistle  them  back. 
Of  praise  a  mere  glutton,  he  swallowed  what  came. 
And  the  puff  of  a  dunce  he  mistook  it  for  fame; 
Till  his  relish  grown  callous,  almost  to  disease. 
Who  peppered  the  highest,  was  surest  to  please.  20 

But  let  us  be  candid,  and  speak  out  our  mind. 
If  dunces  applauded,  he  paid  them  in  kind. 
Ye  Kenricks,  ye  Kellys,  and  Woodfalls  so  grave, 
What  a  commerce  was  yours,  while  you  got  and  you  gave ! 
How  did  Grub-street  re-echo  the  shout  that  you  raised,   25 
While  he  was  be-Rosciused,  and  you  were  bepraised! 


320  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

But  peace  to  his  spirit,  wherever  it  flies, 

To  act  as  an  angel  and  mix  with  the  skies: 

Those  poets  who  owe  their  best  fame  to  his  skill, 

Shall  still  be  his  flatterers,  go  where  he  will,  30 

Old  Shakespeare  receive  him  with  praise  and  with  love, 

And  Beauraonts  and  Bens  be  his  Kellys  above. 

Sir  Joshua  Reynolds 

Here  Reynolds  is  laid,  and,  to  tell  you  my  mind. 
He  has  not  left  a  wiser  or  better  behind; 
His  pencil  was  striking,  resistless,  and  grand; 
His  manners  were  gentle,  complying,  and  bland; 
Still  born  to  improve  us  in  every  part,  5 

His  pencil  our  faces,  his  manners  our  heart: 
To  coxcombs  averse,  yet  most  civilly  steering. 
When  they  judged  without  skill,   he  was  still  hard  of 

hearing. 
When  they  talked  of  their  Raphaels,  Correggios,  and  stuff, 
He  shifted  his  trumpet  and  only  took  snuff.  10 


STANZAS   ON    WOMAN 

When  lovely  Woman  stoops  to  folly. 
And  finds  too  late  that  men  betray. 

What  charm  can  soothe  her  melancholy, 
What  art  can  wash  her  guilt  away? 

The  only  art  her  guilt  to  cover. 
To  hide  her  shame  from  every  eye. 

To  give  repentance  to  her  lover, 
And  wring  his  bosom,  is  —  to  die. 


GOLDSMITH  321 

THE  VICAR   OF   WAKEFIELD 
A  Country  Parsonage 

A  proof  that  even  the  humblest  fortune  may  grant  happiness,  which 
depends  not  on  circumstances,  but  constitution 

The  place  of  our  retreat  was  in  a  little  neighbourhood, 
consisting  of  farmers,  who  tilled  their  own  grounds, 
and  were  equal  strangers  to  opulence  and  poverty. 
As  they  had  almost  all  the  conveniences  of  life  within 
themselves,  they  seldom  visited  towns  or  cities,  in  search  5 
of  superfluity.  Remote  from  the  polite,  they  still  re- 
tained the  primeval  simplicity  of  manners;  and  frugal 
by  habit,  they  scarcely  knew  that  temperance  was  a 
virtue.  They  wrought  with  cheerfulness  on  days  of 
labour;  but  observed  festivals  as  intervals  of  idleness  10 
and  pleasure.  They  kept  up  the  Christmas  carol,  sent 
true-love-knots  on  Valentine  morning,  eat  pancakes  on 
Shrove-tide,  shewed  their  wit  on  the  first  of  April,  and 
religiously  cracked  nuts  on  Michaelmas  eve.  Being  ap- 
prized of  our  approach,  the  whole  neighbourhood  came  15 
out  to  meet  their  minister,  drest  in  their  finest  cloaths, 
and  preceded  by  a  pipe  and  tabor:  A  feast  also  was 
provided  for  our  reception,  at  which  we  sate  cheerfully 
down;  and  what  the  conversation  wanted  in  wit,  was 
made  up  in  laughter.  20 

Our  little  habitation  was  situated  at  the  foot  of  a  slop- 
ing hill,  sheltered  with  a  beautiful  underwood  behind, 
and  a  prattling  river  before :  on  one  side  a  meadow,  on 
the  other  a  green.  My  farm  consisted  of  about  twenty 
acres  of  excellent  land,  having  given  an  hundred  pound  25 
for  my  predecessor's  goodwill.  Nothing  could  exceed 
the  neatness  of  my  little  enclosures;  the  elms  and  hedge- 


322  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

rows  appearing  with  inexpressible  beauty.     My  house 
consisted  of  but  one  story,  and  was  covered  with  thatch, 
which  gave  it  an  air  of  great  snugness;  the  walls  on  the  3a 
inside  were  nicely  white-washed,  and  my  daughters  un- 
dertook to  adorn  them  with  pictures  of  their  own  design- 
ing.    Though  the  same  room  served  us  for  parlour  and 
kitchen,  that  only  made  it  the  warmer.     Besides,  as  it 
was  kept  with  the  utmost  neatness,  the  dishes,  plates,   35 
and  coppers  being  well  scoured,  and  all  disposed  in 
bright  rows  on  the  shelves,  the  eye  was  agreeably  relieved, 
and  did  not  want  richer  furniture.     There  were  three 
other  apartments,  one  for  my  wife  and  me,  another  for 
our  two  daughters,  within  our  own,  and  the  third,  with  40 
two  beds,  for  the  rest  of  the  children. 

The  little  republic  to  which  I  gave  laws,  was  regulated 
in  the  following  manner;  by  sun-rise  we  all  assembled 
in  our  common  apartment;  the  fire  being  previously  kin- 
dled by  the  servant.  After  we  had  saluted  each  other  45 
with  proper  ceremony,  for  I  always  thought  fit  to  keep 
up  some  mechanical  forms  of  good  breeding,  without 
which  freedom  ever  destroys  friendship,  we  all  bent  in 
gratitude  to  that  Being  who  gave  us  another  day.  This 
duty  being  performed,  my  son  and  I  went  to  pursue  our  50 
usual  industry  abroad,  while  my  wife  and  daughters  era- 
ployed  themselves  in  providing  breakfast,  which  was 
always  ready  at  a  certain  time.  I  allowed  half  an  hour 
for  this  meal,  and  an  hour  for  dinner;  which  time  was 
taken  up  in  innocent  mirth  between  my  wife  and  55 
daughters,  and  in  philosophical  arguments  between  my 
son  and  me. 

As  we  rose  with  the  sun,  so  we  never  pursued  our 
labours  after  it  was  gone  down,  but  returned  home  to 
the   expecting    family;    where    smiling   looks,    a   neat  6a 


GOLDSMITH  323 

hearth,  and  pleasant  fire  were  prepared  for  our  recep- 
tion. Nor  were  we  without  guests:  sometimes  farmer 
Flamborough,  our  talkative  neighbour,  and  often  the 
blind  piper  would  pay  us  a  visit,  and  taste  our  goose- 
berry wine;  for  the  making  of  which  we  had  lost  neither  65 
the  receipt  nor  the  reputation.  These  harmless  people 
had  several  ways  of  being  good  company;  while  one 
played,  the  other  would  sing  some  soothing  ballad, 
Johnny  Armstrong's  last  good  night,  or  the  cruelty  of 
Barbary  Allen.  The  night  was  concluded  in  the  manner  70 
we  began  the  morning,  my  youngest  boys  being  ap- 
pointed to  read  the  lessons  of  the  day,  and  he  that  read 
loudest,  distinctest,  and  best,  was  to  have  an  halfpenny 
on  Sunday  to  put  in  the  poor's  box. 

When  Sunday  came,  it  was  indeed  a  day  of  finery,  75 
which  all  my  sumptuary  edicts  could  not  restrain.  How 
well  soever  I  fancied  my  lectures  against  pride  had  con- 
quered the  vanity  of  my  daughters;  yet  I  still  found  them 
secretly  attached  to  all  their  former  finery:  they  still 
loved  laces,  ribbands,  bugles,  and  catgut;  my  wife  her-  80 
self  retained  a  passion  for  her  crimson  paduasoy, 
because  I  formerly  happened  to  say  it  became  her. 

The  first  Sunday  in  particular  their  behaviour  served 
to  mortify  me:  I  had  desired  my  girls  the  preceding 
night  to  be  drest  early  the  next  day;  for  I  always  loved  85 
to  be  at  church  a  good  while  before  the  rest  of'  the  con- 
gregation. They  punctually  obeyed  my  directions;  but 
when  we  were  to  assemble  in  the  morning  at  breakfast, 
down  came  my  wife  and  daughters,  drest  out  all  in  their 
former  splendour;  their  hair  plastered  up  with  poma-  90 
tum,  their  faces  patched  to  taste,  their  trains  bundled 
up  in  a  heap  behind,  and  rustling  at  every  motion.  I 
could  not  help  smiling  at  their  vanity,  particularly  that 


324  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

of  my  wife,  from  whom  I  expected  more  discretion. 
In  this  exigence,   therefore,   my  only  resource  was  to  95 
order  my  son,  with  an  important  air,  to  call  our  coach. 
The  girls  were  amazed  at  the  command ;  but  I  repeated 

it  with  more  solemnity  than  before. "Surely,  my 

"dear,  you  jest,"  cried  my  wife,  "we  can  walk  it  per- 
"fectly  well:  we  want  no  coach  to  carry  us  now." — 100 
"You   mistake,    child,"   returned   I,   "we  do  want  a 
"  coach ;  for  if  we  walk  to  church  in  this  trim,  the  very 
"children  in  the  parish  will  hoot  after  us." — "Indeed," 
replied  my  wife,  "  I  always  imagined  that  my  Charles 
"was  fond  of  seeing  his  children  neat  and  handsome  105 
"about  him."  —  "You  may  be  as  neat  as  you  please," 
interrupted  I,  "and  I  shall  love  you  the  better  for  it; 
"but  all  this  is  not  neatness,  but  frippery.     These  ruf- 
"  flings,  and  pinkings,  and  patchings  will  only  make  us 
"hated  by  all  the  wives  of  all  our  neighbours.     No,  my  no 
"children,"  continued  I  more  gravely,  "  those  gowns  may 
"be  altered  into  something  of  a  plainer  cut;  for  finery 
"  is  very  unbecoming   in  us,   who  want  the  means  of 
"  decency.     I  do  not  know  whether  such  flouncing  and 
"shredding  is  becoming  even  in  the  rich,  if  we  consider,  115 
"  upon  a  moderate  calculation,  that  the  nakedness  of  the 
"  indigent  world  may  be  cloathed  from  the  trimmings  of 
"the  vain." 

This  remonstrance  had  the  proper  effect;  they  went 
with  great  composure,  that  very  instant,  to  change  their  120 
dress;  and  the  next  day  I  had  the  satisfaction  of  find- 
ing my  daughters,  at  their  own  request,  employed  in 
cutting  up  their  trains  into  Sunday  waistcoats  for  Dick 
and  Bill,  the  two  little  ones,  and  what  was  still  more 
satisfactory,  the  gowns  seemed  improved  by  this  cur- 125 
tailing. 


EDMUND    BURKE 

(1729-1797) 

SPEECH   ON   AMERICAN   TAXATION 

Lord  Chatham 

I  HAVE  done  with  the  third  period  of  your  policy 
—  that  of  your  repeal  and  the  return  of  your  ancient 
system  and  your  ancient  tranquillity  and  concord.  Sir, 
this  period  was  not  as  long  as  it  was  happy.  Another 
scene  was  opened,  and  other  actors  appeared  on  the  stage.  5 
The  state,  in  the  condition  1  have  described  it,  was  deliv- 
ered into  the  hands  of  Lord  Chatham  —  a  great  and  cele- 
brated name;  a  name  that  keeps  the  name  of  this  country 
respectable  in  every  other  on  the  globe.  It  may  be  truly 
called,  ^ 

"  Qarum  et  venerabile  nomen  10 

Gentibus,  multum  et  nostrse  quod  proderat  urbi." 

Sir,  the  venerable  age  of  this  great  man,  his  merited 
rank,  his  superior  eloquence,  his  splendid  qualities,  his 
eminent  services,  the  vast  space  he  fills  in  the  eye  of 
mankind;  and,  more  than  all  the  rest,  his  fall  from  15 
power  —  which,  like  death,  canonizes  and  sanctifies  a 
great  character  —  will  not  suffer  me  to  censure  any  part 
of  his  conduct.  I  am  afraid  to  flatter  him;  I  am  sure 
I  am  not  disposed  to  blame  him.  Let  those  who  have 
betrayed  him  by  their  adulation  insult  him  with  their  20 
malevolence.     But  what  I  do  not  presume  to  censure  I 

325 


326  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

may  have  leave  to  lament.  For  a  wise  man  he  seemed 
to  me  at  that  time  to  be  governed  too  much  by  general 
maxims.  I  speak  with  the  freedom  of  history,  and,  I 
hope,  without  offence.  One  or  two  of  these  maxims,  25 
flowing  from  an  opinion  not  the  most  indulgent  to  our 
unhappy  species,  and  surely  a  little  too  general,  led  him 
into  measures  that  were  greatly  mischievous  to  himself, 
and  for  that  reason,  among  others,  perhaps  fatal  to  his 
country  —  measures  the  effects  of  which,  I  am  afraid,  30 
are  forever  incurable. 

He  made  an  administration  so  checkered  and  speckled, 
he  put  together  a  piece  of  joinery  so  crossly  indented 
and  whimsically  dovetailed,  a  cabinet  so  variously  in- 
laid, such  a  piece  of  diversified  mosaic,  such  a  tessel-  35 
lated  pavement  without  cement  —  here  a  bit  of  black 
stone  and  there  a  bit  of  white,  patriots  and  courtiers, 
king's  friends  and  republicans,  Whigs  and  Tories, 
treacherous  friends  and  open  enemies  —  that  it  was, 
indeed,  a  very  curious  show,  but  utterly  unsafe  to  touch  40 
and  unsure  to  stand  on.  The  colleagues  whom  he  had 
assorted  at  the  same  boards  stared  at  each  other,  and 
were  obliged  to  ask,  "Sir,  your  name?"  —  "Sir,  you 
have  the  advantage  of  me."  —  "Mr.  Such-a-one."  —  "I 
beg  a  thousand  pardons."  I  venture  to  say,  it  did  so  45 
happen  that  persons  had  a  single  office  divided  between 
them  who  had  never  spoken  to  each  other  in  their  lives 
until  they  found  themselves,  they  knew  not  how,  pigging 
together,  heads  and  points,  in  the  same  truckle-bed. 

Sir,  in  consequence  of  this  arrangement,  having  put  50 
so  much  the  larger  part  of  his  enemies  and  opposers 
into  power,  the  confusion  was  such  that  his  own  princi- 
ples could  not  possibly  have  any  effect  or  influence  in 
the  conduct  of  affairs.     If  ever  he  fell  into  a  fit  of  the 


BURKE  327 

gout,  or  if  any  other  cause  withdrew  him  from  public  55 
cares,  principles  directly  the  contrary  were  sure  to  pre- 
dominate. When  he  had  executed  his  plan,  he  had  not 
an  inch  of  ground  to  stand  upon.  When  he  had  accom- 
plished his  scheme  of  administration,  he  was  no  longer 
minister.  60 

When  his  face  was  hid  but  for  a  moment,  his  whole 
system  was  on  a  wide  sea  without  chart  or  compass. 
The  gentlemen,  his  particular  friends,  who,  with  the 
names  of  various  departments  of  ministry,  were  admitted 
to  seem  as  if  they  acted  a  part  under  him,  with  a  mod-  65 
esty  that  becomes  all  men,  and  with  a  confidence  in 
him  which  was  justified  even  in  its  extravagance  by  his 
superior  abilities,  had  never  in  any  instance  presumed 
upon  any  opinion  of  their  own.  Deprived  of  his  guid- 
ing influence,  they  were  whirled  about,  the  sport  of  every  ;o 
gust,  and  easily  driven  into  any  port;  and  as  those  who 
joined  with  them  in  manning  the  vessel  were  the  most 
directly  opposite  to  his  opinions,  measures,  and  charac- 
ter, and  far  the  most  artful  and  most  powerful  of  the  set, 
they  easily  prevailed,  so  as  to  seize  upon  the  vacant,  75 
unoccupied,  and  derelict  minds  of  his  friends;  and  in- 
stantly they  turned  the  vessel  wholly  out  of  the  course  of 
his  policy.  As  if  it  were  to  insult  as  well  as  to  betray 
him,  even  long  before  the  close  of  the  first  session  of 
his  administration,  when  everything  was  publicly  trans-  80 
acted,  and  with  great  parade,  in  his  name,  they  made 
an  act  declaring  it  highly  just  and  expedient  to  raise  a 
revenue  in  America.  For  even  then,  sir,  even  before 
this  splendid  orb  was  entirely  set,  and  while  the  western 
horizon  was  in  a  blaze  with  his  descending  glory,  on  the  85 
opposite  quarter  of  the  heavens  arose  another  luminary, 
and,  for  his  hour,  became  lord  of  the  ascendant. 


328  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

SPEECH   ON   CONCILIATION   WITH   AMERICA 
Character  of  the  Americans 

These,  Sir,  are  my  reasons  for  not  entertaining  that 
high  opinion  of  untried  force,  by  which  many  gentlemen, 
for  whose  sentiments  in  other  particulars  I  have  great 
respect,  seem  to  be  so  greatly  captivated.  But  there 
instill  behind  a  third  consideration  concerning  this  ob-  5 
ject,  which  serves  to  determine  my  opinion  on  the  sort 
of  policy  which  ought  to  be  pursued  in  the  management 
of  America,  even  more  than  its  population  and  its  com- 
merce, I  mean  its  temper  and  character. 

In  this  character  of  the  Americans,  a  love  of  freedom  10 
is  the  predominating  feature  which  marks  and  distin- 
guishes the  whole;  and  as  an  ardent  is  always  a  jealous 
affection,  your  Colonies  become  suspicious,  restive,  and 
untractable,  whenever  they  see  the  least  attempt  to  wrest 
from  them  by  force  or  shuffle  from  them  by  chicane,  what  15 
they  think  the  only  advantage  worth   living  for.     This 
fierce  spirit  of  liberty  is  stronger  in  the  English  Colo- 
nies probably  than  in  any  other  people  of  the  earth;  and 
this  from  a  great  variety  of  powerful  causes;  which,  to 
understand  the  true  temper  of  their  minds,  and  the  direc-  20 
tion  which  this  spirit  takes,  it  will  not  be  amiss  to  lay 
open  somewhat  more  largely. 

First,  the  people  of  the  Colonies  are  descendants  of 
Englishmen.  England,  Sir,  is  a  nation  which  stilf  I 
hope  respects,  and  formerly  adored,  her  freedom.  The  25 
Colonists  emigrated  from  you  when  this  part  of  your 
character  was  most  predominant;  and  they  took  this  bias 
and  direction  the  moment  they  parted  from  your  hands. 
They  are  therefore  not  only  devoted  to  liberty,  but  to 


BURKE  329 

liberty  according  to  English  ideas,  and  on  English  prin-  30 
ciples.     Abstract  liberty,  like  other  mere  abstractions, 
is  not  to  be  found.     Liberty  inheres  in  some  sensible 
object;  and  every  nation  has   formed   to   itself   some 
favourite  point,  which  by  way  of  eminence  becomes  the 
criterion  of  their  happiness.     It  happened,  you  know,   35 
Sir,  that  the  great  contests  for  freedom  in  this  country 
were  from  the  earliest  times  chiefly  upon  the  question  of 
taxing.     Most  of  the  contests  in  the  ancient  common- 
wealths turned  primarily  on  the  right  of  election  of  mag- 
istrates; or  on  the  balance  among  the  several  orders  of  40 
the  State.     The  question  of  money  was  not  with  them 
so  immediate.     But  in  England  it  was  otherwise.     On 
this  point  of  taxes  the  ablest  pens  and  most  eloquent 
tongues  have  been  exercised;  the  greatest  spirits  have 
acted  and  suffered.     In  order  to  give  the  fullest  satisfac-  45 
tion  concerning  the  importance  of  this  point,  it  was  not 
only  necessary  for  those  who  in  argument  defended  the 
excellence  of  the  English  Constitution  to  insist  on  this 
privilege  of  granting  money  as  a  dry  point  of  fact,  and 
to  prove  that  the  right  had  been  acknowledged  in  ancient  50 
parchments  and  blind  usage  to  reside  in  a  certain  body 
called  a  House  of  Commons.     They  went  much  farther; 
they  attempted  to  prove,  and   they  succeeded,  that  in 
theory  it  ought  to  be  so,  from  the  particular  nature  of  a 
House  of  Commons  as  an  immediate  representative  of  55 
the  people,  whether  the  old  records  had  delivered  this 
oracle  or  not.     They  took  infinite  pains  to  inculcate,  as 
a  fundamental   principle,   that  in  all    monarchies   the 
people  must  in  effect  themselves,  mediately  or  imme- 
diately, possess  the  power  of  granting  their  own  money,   60 
or  no  shadow  of  liberty  could  subsist.     The  Colonies 
draw  from  you,  as  with  their  life-blood,  these  ideas  and 


330  FROM  CHAUCER    TO   ARNOLD 

principles.     Their  love  of  liberty,   as  with  you,   fixed 
and  attached  on  this  specific  point  of  taxing.     Liberty 
might  be  safe,  or  might  be  endangered,  in  twenty  other  65 
particulars,  without  their  being  much  pleased  or  alarmed. 
Here  they  felt  its  pulse;  and  as  they  found  that  beat, 
they  thought  themselves  sick  or  sound.     I  do  not  say 
whether  they  were  right  or  wrong  in  applying  your  gen- 
eral arguments  to  their  own  cause.     It  is  not  easy  indeed   70 
to  make  a  monopoly  of  theorems  and  corollaries.     The 
fact  is,  that  they  did  thus  apply  those  general  arguments; 
and  your  mode  of   governing   them,   whether   through 
lenity  or  indolence,  through  wisdom  or  mistake,  con- 
firmed them    in  the  imagination,  that  they,  as  well  as  75 
you,  had  an  interest  in  these  common  principles. 

They  were  further  confirmed  in  this  pleasing  error  by 
the  form  of  their  provincial  legislative  assemblies.  Their 
governments  are  popular  in  a  high  degree;  some  are 
merely  popular;  in  all,  the  popular  representative  is  the  80 
most  weighty;  and  this  share  of  the  people  in  their  or- 
dinary government  never  fails  to  inspire  them  with  lofty 
sentiments,  and  with  a  strong  aversion  from  whatever 
tends  to  deprive  them  of  their  chief  importance. 

If  anything  were  wanting  to  this  necessary  operation  85 
of  the  form  of  government,  religion  would  have  given  it 
a  complete  effect.  Religion,  always  a  principle  of 
energy,  in  this  new  people  is  no  way  worn  out  or  im- 
paired; and  their  mode  of  professing  it  is  also  one  ma^in 
cause  of  this  free  spirit.  The  people  are  Protestants;  yo 
and  of  that  kind  which  is  the  most  adverse  to  all  im- 
plicit submission  of  mind  and  opinion.  This  is  a  per- 
suasion not  only  favourable  to  liberty,  but  built  upon  it. 
I  do  not  think.  Sir,  that  the  reason  of  this  averseness  in 
the  dissenting  churches,  from  all  that  looks  like  absolute  95 


BURKE  331 

government,  is  so  much  to  be  sought  in  their  religious 
tenets  as  in  their  history.  Every  one  knows  that  the 
Roman  Catholic  religion  is  at  least  coeval  with  most  of 
the  governments  where  it  prevails;  that  it  has  generally 
gone  hand  in  hand  with  them,  and  received  great  favour  100 
and  every  kind  of  support  from  authority.  The  Church 
of  England  too  was  formed  from  her  cradle  under  the 
nursing  care  of  regular  government.  But  the  dissenting 
interests  have  sprung  up  in  direct  opposition  to  all  the 
ordinary  powers  of  the  world;  and  could  justify  that  op- 105 
position  only  on  a  strong  claim  to  natural  liberty.  Their 
very  existence  depended  on  the  powerful  and  unremitted 
assertion  of  that  claim.  All  Protestantism,  even  the 
most  cold  and  passive,  is  a  sort  of  dissent.  But  the 
religion  most  prevalent  in  our  Northern  Colonies  is  a  no 
refinement  on  the  principle  of  resistance;  it  is  the  dissi- 
dence  of  dissent,  and  the  Protestantism  of  the  Protes- 
tant religion.  This  religion,  under  a  variety  of  denomi- 
nations agreeing  in  nothing  but  in  the  communion  of 
the  spirit  of  liberty,  is  predominant  in  most  of  the  115 
Northern  provinces,  where  the  Church  of  England,  not- 
withstanding its  legal  rights,  is  in  reality  no  more  than 
a  sort  of  private  sect,  not  composing  most  probably  the 
tenth  of  the  people.  The  Colonists  left  England  when 
this  spirit  was  high,  and  in  the  emigrants  was  the  high-  120 
est  of  all,  and  even  that  stream  of  foreigners,  which 
has  been  constantly  flowing  into  these  Colonies,  has, 
for  the  greatest  part,  been  composed  of  dissenters  from 
the  establishments  of  their  several  countries,  and  have 
brought  with  them  a  temper  and  character  far  from  alien  \z-, 
to  that  of  the  people  with  whom  they  mixed. 

Sir,  I  can  perceive  by  their  manner,  that  some  gen- 
tlemen object  to  the  latitude  of  this  description,  because 


332  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

in  the  Southern  Colonies  the  Church  of  England  forms 
a  large  body,  and  has  a  regular  establishment.     It  is  130 
certainly  true.     There  is,  however,  a  circumstance  at- 
tending  these   Colonies,  which,  in   my  opinion,  fully 
counterbalances  this  difference,  and  makes  the  spirit  of 
liberty  still  more  high  and  haughty  than  in  those  to  the 
Northward.     It  is,  that  in  Virginia  and  the  Carolinas  135 
they  have  a  vast  multitude  of  slaves.     Where  this  is  the 
case  in  any  part  of  the  world,  those  who  are  free  are  by 
far  the  most  proud  and  jealous  of  their  freedom.   Freedom 
is  to  them  not  only  an  enjoyment,  but  a  kind  of  rank 
and  privilege.     Not  seeing  there,  that  freedom,  as  in  140 
countries  where  it  is  a  common  blessing,  and  as  broad 
and  general  as  the  air,  may  be  united  with  much  abject 
toil,  with  great  misery,  with  all  the  exterior  of  servitude, 
liberty  looks,  amongst  them,  like  something  that  is  more 
noble  and  liberal.     I  do  not  mean,  Sir,  to  commend  145 
the  superior   morality  of  this  sentiment,  which  has  at 
least  as  much  pride  as  virtue  in  it;  but  I  cannot  alter 
the  nature  of  man.     The  fact  is  so;  and  these  people 
of  the  Southern  Colonies  are  much  more  strongly,  and 
with  a  higher  and  more  stubborn  spirit,   attached  to  150 
liberty,  than  those  to  the  Northward.     Such  were  all  the 
ancient  commonwealths;   such  were  our  Gothic  ances- 
tors; such  in  our  days  were  the  Poles;  and  such  will  be 
all  masters  of  slaves  who  are  not  slaves  themselves.     In 
such  a  people,  the  haughtiness  of  domination  combines  155 
with  the  spirit  of  freedom,  fortifies  it,  and  renders  it 
invincible. 

Permit  me.  Sir,  to  add  another  circumstance  in  our 
Colonies,  which  contributes  no  mean  part  towards  the 
growth  and  effect  of  this  untractable   spirit.     I   mean  160 
their  education.     In  no  country  perhaps  in  the  world  is 


BURKE  333 

the  law  so  general  a  study.     The  profession  itself  is  nu- 
merous and  powerful;  and  in  most  provinces  it  takes  the 
lead.     The  greater  number  of  the  deputies  sent  to  the 
Congress  were  lawyers.     But  all  who  read  (and  most  do  165 
read),   endeavour   to   obtain   some   smattering  in  that 
science.     I  have  been  told  by  an  eminent  bookseller, 
that  in  no  branch  of  his  business,  after  tracts  of  popu- 
lar devotion,  were  so  many  books  as  those  on  the  law 
exported  to  the  plantations.     The  Colonists  have  now  170 
fallen  into  the  way  of  printing  them  for  their  own  use. 
I  hear  that  they  have  sold  nearly  as  many  of  Blackstone's 
Commentaries  in  America  as  in  England.     General  Gage 
marks  out  this  disposition  very  particularly  in  a  letter 
on  your  table.     He  states  that  all  the  people  in  his  Gov- 175 
ernment  are  lawyers,  or  smatterers  in  law;  and  that  in 
Boston  they  have  been  enabled,  by  successful  chicane, 
wholly  to  evade  many  parts  of  one  of  your  capital  penal 
constitutions.     The  smartness  of  debate  will  say  that 
this  knowledge  ought  to  teach  them  more  clearly  the  180 
rights  of  legislature,  their  obligations  to  obedience,  and 
the  penalties  of  rebellion.     All  this  is  mighty  well.     But 
my  honourable  and  learned  friend  on  the  floor,  who  con- 
descends to  mark  what  I  say  for  animadversion,  will 
disdain  that  ground.     He  has  heard,  as  well  as  I,  that  185 
when  great  honours  and  great  emoluments  do  not  win 
over  this  knowledge  to  the  service  of  the  State,  it  is  a 
formidable  adversary  to  Government.     If  the  spirit  be 
not  tamed  and  broken  by  these  happy  methods,  it  is 
stubborn  and  litigious.     Abeunt  stiidia  in  mores.     This  190 
study  renders  men  acute,  inquisitive,  dexterous,  prompt 
in  attack,  ready  in  defence,  full  of  resources.     In  other 
countries,  the  people,  more  simple,  and  of  a  less  mercu- 
rial cast,  judge  of  an  ill  principle  in  government  only  by 


334  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

an  actual  grievance;  here  they  anticipate  the  evil,  and  195 
judge  of  the  pressure  of  the  grievance  by  the  badness  of 
the  principle.     They  augur  misgovernment  at  a  distance ; 
and  snuff  the  approach  of  tyranny  in  every  tainted  breeze. 
The  last  cause  of  this  disobedient  spirit  in  the  Colo- 
nies is  hardly  less  powerful  than  the  rest,  as  it  is  not  200 
merely  moral,  but  laid  deep  in  the  natural  constitution 
of  things.     Three  thousand  miles  of  ocean  lie  between 
you  and  them.     No  contrivance  can  prevent  the  effect 
of  this  distance   in  weakening  government.     Seas  roll, 
and  months  pass,  between  the  order  and  the  execution;  205 
and  the  want  of  a  speedy  explanation  of  a  single  point  is 
enough  to  defeat  a  whole  system.     You  have,  indeed, 
"winged  ministers  of  vengeance,"  who  carry  your  bolts 
in  their  pounces  to  the  remotest  verge  of  the  sea.     But 
there  a  power  steps  in,  that  limits  the  arrogance  of  raging  210 
passions  and  furious  elements,  and  says,  "So  far  shalt 
thou  go,  and  no  farther."     Who  are  you,  that  you  should 
fret  and  rage,  and  bite  the  chains  of  Nature  ?  —  nothing 
worse  happens  to  you  than  does  to  all  nations  who  have 
extensive  empire;  and  it  happens  in  all  the  forms  into  215 
which  empire  can  be  thrown.     In  large  bodies,  the  cir- 
culation of  power  must  be  less  vigorous  at  the  extremi- 
ties.    Nature  has  said    it.     The  Turk   cannot   govern 
Egypt,  and  Arabia,  and  Kurdistan,  as  he  governs  Thrace; 
nor  has  he  the  same  dominion  in  Crimea  and  Algiers  220 
which  he  has  at  Brusa  and  Smyrna.     Despotism  itself  is 
obliged  to  truck  and  huckster.     The  Sultan  gets  such 
obedience  as  he  can.     He  governs  with  a  loose  rein, 
that  he  may  govern  at  all ;  and  the  whole  of  the  force 
and  vigour  of  his  authority  in  his  centre  is  derived  from  225 
a  prudent  relaxation  in  all  his  borders.     Spain,  in  her 
provinces,  is  perhaps  not  so  well  obeyed  as  you  are   in 


BURKE  335 

yours.  She  complies  too;  she  submits;  she  watches 
times.  This  is  the  immutable  condition,  the  eternal  law, 
of  extensive  and  detached  empire.  230 

Then,  Sir,  from  these  six  capital  sources;  of  descent; 
of  form  of  government;  of  religion  in  the  northern 
provinces;  of  manners  in  the  southern;  of  education; 
of  the  remoteness  of  situation  from  the  first  mover  of 
government;  from  all  these  causes  a  fierce  spirit  of  lib-  235 
erty  has  grown  up.  It  has  grown  with  the  growth  of  the 
people  in  your  Colonies,  and  increased  with  the  in- 
crease of  their  wealth;  a  spirit,  that  unhappily  meeting 
with  an  exercise  of  power  in  England,  which,  however 
lawful,  is  not  reconcileable  to  any  ideas  of  liberty,  much  240 
less  with  theirs,  has  kindled  this  flame  that  is  ready  to 
consume  us. 


WILLIAM   COWPER 

(1731-1800) 

THE    TASK 
The  Post —  The  Fireside  in  Winter 

Hark!  'tis  the  twanging  horn!     O'er  yonder  bridge, 
That  with  its  wearisome  but  needful  length 
Bestrides  the  wintry  flood,  in  which  the  moon 
Sees  her  unwrinkled  face  reflected  bright, 
He  comes,  the  herald  of  a  noisy  world,  5 

With  spattered  boots,  strapped  waist,  and  frozen  locks. 
News  from  all  nations  lumbering  at  his  back. 
True  to  his  charge,  the  close-packed  load  behind. 
Yet  careless  what  he  brings,  his  one  concern 
Is  to  conduct  it  to  the  destined  inn,  10 

And  having  dropped  the  expected  bag  —  pass  on. 
He  whistles  as  he  goes,  light-hearted  wretch. 
Cold  and  yet  cheerful :  messenger  of  grief 
Perhaps  to  thousands,  and  of  joy  to  some, 
To  him  indifferent  whether  grief  or  joy.  15 

Houses  in  ashes,  and  the  fall  of  stocks. 
Births,  deaths,  and  marriages,  epistles  wet 
With  tears  that  trickled  down  the  writer's  cheeks 
Fast  as  the  periods  from  his  fluent  quill. 
Or  charged  with  amorous  sighs  of  absent  swains,  20 

Or  nymphs  responsive,  equally  affect 
His  horse  and  him,  unconscious  of  them  all. 
But  oh  the  important  budget !  ushered  in 
336 


cow  PER  337 

With  such  heart-shaking  music,  who  can  say 

What  are  its  tidings?  have  our  troops  awaked?  25 

Or  do  they  still,  as  if  with  opium  drugged, 

Snore  to  the  murmurs  of  the  Atlantic  wave? 

Is  India  free?  and  does  she  wear  her  plumed 

And  jewelled  turban  with  a  smile  of  peace, 

Or  do  we  grind  her  still  ?     The  grand  debate,  30 

The  popular  harangue,  the  tart  reply. 

The  logic,  and  the  wisdom,  and  the  wit. 

And  the  loud  laugh  —  I  long  to  know  them  all ; 

I  burn  to  set  the  imprisoned  wranglers  free, 

And  give  them  voice  and  utterance  once  again.  35 

Now  stir  the  fire,  and  close  the  shutters  fast, 
Let  fall  the  curtains,  wheel  the  sofa  round, 
And  while  the  bubbling  and  loud  hissing  urn 
Throws  up  a  steamy  column,  and  the  cups 
That  cheer  but  not  inebriate,  wait  on  each,  40 

So  let  us  welcome  peaceful  evening  in. 

O  Winter !  ruler  of  the  inverted  year, 
Thy  scattered  air  with  sleet  like  ashes  filled, 
Thy  breath  congealed  upon  thy  lips,  thy  cheeks 
Fringed  with  a  beard  made  white  with  other  snows     45 
Than  those  of  age,  thy  forehead  wrapt  in  clouds, 
A  leafless  branch  thy  sceptre,  and  thy  throne 
A  sliding  car,  indebted  to  no  wheels. 
But  urged  by  storms  along  its  slippery  way; 
I  love  thee,  all  unlovely  as  thou  seemest,  50 

And  dreaded  as  thou  art.     Thou  boldest  the  sun 
A  prisoner  in  the  yet  undawning  east. 
Shortening  his  journey  between  morn  and  noon, 
And  hurrying  him,  impatient  of  his  stay, 
Down  to  the  rosy  west;  but  kindly  still  55 


338  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

Compensating  his  loss  with  added  hours 

Of  social  converse  and  instructive  ease, 

And  gathering,  at  short  notice,  in  one  group 

The  family  dispersed,  and  fixing  thought, 

Not  less  dispersed  by  daylight  and  its  cares.  60 

I  crown  thee  King  of  intimate  delights. 

Fireside  enjoyments,  homeborn  happiness, 

And  all  the  comforts  that  the  lowly  roof 

Of  undisturbed  retirement,  and  the  hours 

Of  long  uninterrupted  evening  know.  65 

No  rattling  wheels  stop  short  before  these  gates; 

No  powdered  pert,  proficient  in  the  art 

Of  sounding  an  alarm,  assaults  these  doors 

Till  the  street  rings;  no  stationary  steeds 

Cough  their  own  knell,  while,  heedless  of  the  sound,     70 

The  silent  circle  fan  themselves,  and  quake : 

But  here  the  needle  plies  its  busy  task. 

The  pattern  grows,  the  well-depicted  flower, 

Wrought  patiently  into  the  snowy  lawn. 

Unfolds  its  bosom;  buds,  and  leaves,  and  sprigs,  75 

And  curling  tendrils,  gracefully  disposed. 

Follow  the  nimble  finger  of  the  fair; 

A  wreath  that  cannot  fade,  of  flowers  that  blow 

With  most  success  when  all  besides  decay. 

The  poet's  or  historian's  page,  by  one  80 

Made  vocal  for  the  amusement  of  the  rest; 

The  sprightly  lyre,  whose  treasure  of  sweet  sounds 

The  touch  from  many  a  trembling  chord  shakes  out; 

And  the  clear  voice  of  symphonious,  yet  distinct. 

And  in  the  charming  strife  triumphant  still;  85 

Beguile  the  night,  and  set  a  keener  edge 

On  female  industry :  the  threaded  steel 

Flies  Swiftly,  and  unfelt  the  task  proceeds. 


cow  PER  33g 

Snow 

I  saw  the  woods  and  fields  at  close  of  day 
A  variegated  show;  the  meadows  green, 
Though  faded ;  and  the  lands,  where  lately  waved 
The  golden  harvest,  of  a  mellow  brown, 
Upturned  so  lately  by  the  forceful  share:  5 

I  saw  far  off  the  weedy  fallows  smile 
With  verdure  not  unprofitable,  grazed 
By  flocks,  fast  feeding,  and  selecting  each 
His  favourite  herb;  while  all  the  leafless  groves 
That  skirt  the  horizon,  wore  a  sable  hue,  10 

Scarce  noticed  in  the  kindred  dusk  of  eve. 
To-morrow  brings  a  change,  a  total  change ! 
Which  even  now,  though  silently  performed 
And  slowly,  and  by  most  unfelt,  the  face 
Of  universal  nature  undergoes.  15 

Fast  falls  a  fleecy  shower :  the  downy  flakes 
Descending,  and,  with  never-ceasing  lapse, 
Softly  alighting  upon  all  below. 
Assimilate  all  objects.     Earth  receives 
Gladly  the  thickening  mantle,  and  the  green  20 

And  tender  blade  that  feared  the  chilling  blast 
Escapes  unhurt  beneath  so  warm  a  veil. 

In  such  a  world,  so  thorny,  and  where  none 
Finds  happiness  unblighted,  or,  if  found. 
Without  some  thistly  sorrow  at  its  side,  25 

It  seems  the  part  of  wisdom,  and  no  sin 
Against  the  law  of  love,  to  measure  lots 
With  less  distinguished  than  ourselves,  that  thus 
We  may  with  patience  bear  our  moderate  ills. 
And  sympathise  with  others,  suffering  more.  30 

111  fares  the  traveller  now,  and  he  that  stalks 


340  FROM   CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

In  ponderous  boots  beside  his  reeking  team 

The  wain  goes  heavily,  impeded  sore 

By  congregated  loads  adhering  close 

To  the  clogged  wheels;  and  in  its  sluggish  pace         35 

Noiseless  appears  a  moving  hill  of  snow. 

The  toiling  steeds  expand  the  nostril  wide, 

While  every  breath,  by  respiration  strong 

Forced  downward,  is  consolidated  soon 

Upon  their  jutting  chests.     He,  formed  to  bear         40 

The  pelting  brunt  of  the  tempestuous  night, 

With  half-shut  eyes  and  puckered  cheeks,  and  teeth 

Presented  bare  against  the  storm,  plods  on. 

One  hand  secures  his  hat,  save  when  with  both 

He  brandishes  his  pliant  length  of  whip,  45 

Resounding  oft,  and  never  heard  in  vain. 

O  happy !  and  in  my  account,  denied 

That  sensibility  of  pain  with  which 

Refinement  is  endued,  thrice  happy  thou. 

Thy  frame,  robust  and  hardy,  feels  indeed  50 

The  piercing  cold,  but  feels  it  unimpaired. 

The  learned  finger  never  need  explore 

Thy  vigorous  pulse;  and  the  unhealthful  east, 

That  breathes  the  spleen,  and  searches  every  bone 

Of  the  infirm,  is  wholesome  air  to  thee.  55 

Thy  days  roll  on  exempt  from  household  care, 

The  waggon  is  thy  wife;  and  the  poor  beasts 

That  drag  the  dull  companion  to  and  fro. 

Thine  helpless  charge,  dependent  on  thy  care. 

Ah,  treat  them  kindly !  rude  as  thou  appearest,  60 

Yet  show  that  thou  hast  mercy,  which  the  great. 

With  needless  hurry  whirled  from  place  to  place, 

Humane  as  they  would  seem,  not  always  show. 


CO  IV PER  341 

Early  Love  of  the  Country  and  of  Poetry 

But  slighted  as  it  is,  and  by  the  great 
Abandoned,  and,  which  still  I  more  regret, 
Infected  with  the  manners  and  the  modes 
It  knew  not  once,  the  country  wins  me  still. 
I  never  framed  a  wish,  or  formed  a  plan,  5 

That  flattered  me  with  hopes  of  earthly  bliss, 
But  there  1  laid  the  scene.     There  early  strayed 
My  fancy,  ere  yet  liberty  of  choice 
Had  found  me,  or  the  hope  of  being  free. 
My  very  dreams  were  rural,  rural  too  10 

The  firstborn  efforts  of  my  youthful  muse, 
Sportive,  and  jingling  her  poetic  bells 
Ere  yet  her  ear  was  mistress  of  their  powers. 
No  bard  could  please  me  but  whose  lyre  was  tuned 
To  Nature's  praises.     Heroes  and  their  feats  15 

Fatigued  me,  never  weary  of  the  pipe 
Of  Tityrus,  assembling,  as  he  sang. 
The  rustic  throng  beneath  his  favourite  beech. 
Then  Milton  had  indeed  a  poet's  charms: 
New  to  my  taste,  his  Paradise  surpassed  20 

The  struggling  efforts  of  my  boyish  tongue 
To  speak  its  excellence;  I  danced  for  joy. 
I  marvelled  much  that,  at  so  ripe  an  age 
As  twice  seven  years,  his  beauties  had  then  first 
Engaged  my  wonder,  and  admiring  still,  25 

And  still  admiring,  with  regret  supposed 
The  joy  half  lost  because  not  sooner  found. 
Thee  too,  enamoured  of  the  life  I  loved, 
Pathetic  in  its  praise,  in  its  pursuit 
Determined,  and  possessing  it  at  last  30 

With  transports  such  as  favoured  lovers  feel. 


342  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

I  Studied,  prized,  and  wished  that  I  had  known, 

Ingenious  Cowley !  and  though  now  reclaimed 

By  modern  lights  from  an  erroneous  taste, 

I  cannot  but  lament  thy  splendid  wit  35 

Entangled  in  the  cobwebs  of  the  schools; 

I  still  revere  thee,  courtly  though  retired, 

Though  stretched  at  ease  in  Chertsey's  silent  bowers. 

Not  unemployed,  and  finding  rich  amends 

For  a  lost  world  in  solitude  and  verse.  40 

The  Poet  in  the  Woods 

Here  unmolested,  through  whatever  sign 
The  sun  proceeds,  I  wander;  neither  mist, 
Nor  freezing  sky  nor  sultry,  checking  me, 
Nor  stranger  intermeddling  with  my  joy. 
Even  in  the  spring  and  playtime  of  the  year,  5 

That  calls  the  unwonted  villager  abroad 
With  all  her  little  ones,  a  sportive  train. 
To  gather  kingcups  in  the  yellow  mead. 
And  prink  their  hair  with  daisies,  or  to  pick 
A  cheap  but  wholesome  salad  from  the  brook,  10 

These  shades  are  all  my  own.     The  timorous  hare, 
Grown  so  familiar  with  her  frequent  guest. 
Scarce  shuns  me;  and  the  stockdove  unalarmed 
Sits  cooing  in  the  pine-tree,  nor  suspends 
His  long  love-ditty  for  my  near  approach.  15 

Drawn  from  his  refuge  in  some  lonely  elm 
That  age  or  injury  has  hollowed  deep. 
Where  on  his  bed  of  wool  and  matted  leaves 
He  has  outslept  the  winter,  ventures  forth 
To  frisk  awhile,  and  bask  in  the  warm  sun,  20 

The  squirrel,  flippant,  pert,  and  full  of  play. 


CO  WPER  345 

He  sees  me,  and  at  once,  swift  as  a  bird, 

Ascends  the  neighbouring  beech;  there  whisks  his  brush, 

And  perks  his  ears,  and  stamps  and  scolds  aloud, 

With  all  the  prettiness  of  feigned  alarm,  25 

And  anger  insignificantly  fierce. 


ON   THE   RECEIPT   OF   MY   MOTHER'S   PICTURE 

Oh  that  those  lips  had  language !     Life  has  passed 
With  me  but  roughly  since  I  heard  thee  last. 
Those  lips  are  thine  —  thy  own  sweet  smile  I  see. 
The  same  that  oft  in  childhood  solaced  me; 
Voice  only  fails,  else  how  distinct  they  say,  5 

*  Grieve  not,  my  child,  chase  all  thy  fears  away! ' 
The  meek  intelligence  of  those  dear  eyes 
(Blessed  be  the  art  that  can  immortalize, 
The  art  that  baffles  Time's  tyrannic  claim 
To  quench  it)  here  shines  on  me  still  the  same.  10 

Faithful  remembrancer  of  one  so  dear, 

0  welcome  guest,  though  unexpected  here ! 
Who  bidst  me  honour  with  an  artless  song, 
Affectionate,  a  mother  lost  so  long, 

1  will  obey,  not  willingly  alone,  15 
But  gladly,  as  the  precept  were  her  own : 

And,  while  that  face  renews  my  filial  grief, 

Fancy  shall  weave  a  charm  for  my  relief, 

Shall  steep  me  in  Elysian  reverie, 

A  momentary  dream  that  thou  art  she.  20 

My  mother !  when  I  learnt  that  thou  wast  dead, 
Say,  wast  thou  conscious  of  the  tears  I  shed? 
Hovered  thy  spirit  o'er  thy  sorrowing  son, 


344  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

Wretch  even  then  life's  journey  just  begun? 

Perhaps  thou  gavest  me,  though  unfelt,  a  kiss:  25 

Perhaps  a  tear,  if  souls  can  weep  in  bliss  — 

Ah,  that  maternal  smile  !     It  answers  —  Yes. 

I  heard  the  bell  tolled  on  thy  burial  day, 

I  saw  the  hearse  that  bore  thee  slow  away. 

And,  turning  from  my  nursery  window,  drew  30 

A  long,  long  sigh,  and  wept  a  last  adieu  I 

But  was  it  such  ?  —  It  was.  —  Where  thou  art  gone 

Adieus  and  farewells  are  a  sound  unknown. 

May  I  but  meet  thee  on  that  peaceful  shore, 

The  parting  word  shall  pass  my  lips  no  more !  35 

Thy  maidens,  grieved  themselves  at  my  concern, 

Oft  gave  me  promise  of  thy  quick  return. 

What  ardently  I  wished  I  long  believed, 

And,  disappointed  still,  was  still  deceived. 

By  expectation  every  day  beguiled,  40 

Dupe  of  to-morrow  even  from  a  child. 

Thus  many  a  sad  to-morrow  came  and  went. 

Till,  all  my  stock  of  infant  sorrow  spent, 

I  learned  at  last  submission  to  my  lot; 

But,  though  I  less  deplored  thee,  ne'er  forgot.  45 

Where  once  we  dwelt  our  name  is  heard  no  more, 
Children  not  thine  have  trod  my  nursery  floor; 
And  where  the  gardener  Robin,  day  by  day, 
Drew  me  to  school  along  the  public  way. 
Delighted  with  my  bauble  coach,  and  wrapped  50 

In  scarlet  mantle  warm,  and  velvet  capped, 
'Tis  now  become  a  history  little  known. 
That  once  we  called  the  pastoral  house  our  own. 
Short-lived  possession !  but  the  record  fair 
That  memory  keeps,  of  all  thy  kindness  there,  55 

Still  outlives  many  a  storm  that  has  effaced 


cow  PER  345 

A  thousand  other  themes  less  deeply  traced. 

Thy  nightly  visits  to  my  chamber  made, 

That  thou  mightst  know  me  safe  and  warmly  laid ; 

Thy  morning  bounties  ere  I  left  my  home,  60 

The  biscuit,  or  confectionery  plum; 

The  fragrant  waters  on  my  cheek  bestowed 

By  thy  own  hand,  till  fresh  they  shone  and  glowed; 

All  this,  and  more  endearing  still  than  all, 

Thy  constant  flow  of  love,  that  knew  no  fall,  65 

Ne'er  roughened  by  those  cataracts  and  brakes 

That  humour  interposed  too  often  makes; 

All  this  still  legible  in  memory's  page, 

And  still  to  be  so  to  my  latest  age. 

Adds  joy  to  duty,  makes  me  glad  to  pay  70 

Such  honours  to  thee  as  my  numbers  may; 

Perhaps  a  frail  memorial,  but  sincere. 

Not  scorned  in  heaven,  though  little  noticed  here. 

Could  Time,  his  flight  reversed,  restore  the  hours, 
When,  playing  with  thy  vesture's  tissued  flowers,  75 

The  violet,  the  pink,  and  jessamine, 
I  pricked  them  into  paper  with  a  pin 
(And  thou  wast  happier  than  myself  the  while, 
Wouldst  softly  speak,  and  stroke  my  head  and  smile). 
Could  those  few  pleasant  days  again  appear,  80 

Might  one  wish  bring  them,  would  1  wish  them  here? 
I  would  not  trust  my  heart  —  the  dear  delight 
Seems  so  to  be  desired,  perhaps  I  might.  — 
But  no  —  what  here  we  call  our  life  is  such 
So  little  to  be  loved,  and  thou  so  much,  85 

That  I  should  ill  requite  thee  to  constrain 
Thy  unbound  spirit  into  bonds  again. 

Thou,  as  a  gallant  bark  from  Albion's  coast 
(The  storms  all  weathered  and  the  ocean  crossed) 


346  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

Shoots  into  port  at  some  well-havened  isle,  90 

Where  spices  breathe,  and  brighter  seasons  smile, 

There  sits  quiescent  on  the  floods  that  show 

Her  beauteous  form  reflected  clear  below, 

While  airs  impregnated  with  incense  play 

Around  her,  fanning  light  her  streamers  gay;  95 

So  thou,  with  sails  how  swift!  hast  reached  the  shore, 

'  Where  tempests  never  beat  nor  billows  roar. ' 

And  thy  loved  consort  on  the  dangerous  tide 

Of  life  long  since  has  anchored  by  thy  side. 

But  me,  scarce  hoping  to  attain  that  rest,  100 

Always  from  port  withheld,  always  distressed  — 

Me  howling  blasts  drive  devious,  tempest  tost, 

Sails  ripped,  seams  opening  wide,  and  compass  lost, 

And  day  by  day  some  current's  thwarting  force 

Sets  me  more  distant  from  a  prosperous  course.  105 

Yet,  oh,  the  thought  that  thou  art  safe,  and  he ! 

That  thought  is  joy,  arrive  what  may  to  me. 

My  boast  is  not,  that  I  deduce  my  birth 

From  loins  enthroned  and  rulers  of  the  earth; 

But  higher  far  my  proud  pretensions  rise —  no 

The  son  of  parents  passed  into  the  skies ! 

And  now,  farewell  —  Time  unrevoked  has  run 

His  wonted  course,  yet  what  I  wished  is  done. 

By  contemplation's  help,  not  sought  in  vain, 

I  seem  to  have  lived  my  childhood  o'er  again;  115 

To  have  renewed  the  joys  that  once  were  mine. 

Without  the  sin  of  violating  thine: 

And,  while  the  wings  of  Fancy  still  are  free, 

And  I  can  view  this  mimic  show  of  thee, 

Time  has  but  half  succeeded  in  his  theft —  120 

Thyself  removed,  thy  power  to  soothe  me  left. 


EDWARD   GIBBON 

(1737-1794) 

THE  DECLINE  AND  FALL  OF  THE  ROMAN  EMPIRE 

The  Overthrow  of  Zenobia 

AuRELiAN  had  no  sooner  secured  the  person  and  prov- 
inces of  Tetricus  than  he  turned  his  arms  against  Zeno- 
bia, the  celebrated  Queen  of  Palmyra  and  the  East. 
Modern  Europe  has  produced  several  illustrious  women 
who  have  sustained  with  glory  the  weight  of  empire,  nor  5 
is  our  own  age  destitute  of  such  distinguished  charac- 
ters. But  if  we  except  the  doubtful  achievements  of 
Semiramis,  Zenobia  is,  perhaps,  the  only  female  whose 
superior  genius  broke  through  the  servile  indolence  im- 
posed on  her  sex  by  the  climate  and  manners  of  Asia.  10 
She  claimed  her  descent  from  the  Macedonian  kings  of 
Egypt,  equalled  in  beauty  her  ancestor  Cleopatra,  and 
far  surpassed  that  princess  in  chastity  and  valor.  Zeno- 
bia was  esteemed  the  most  lovely  as  well  as  the  most 
heroic  of  her  sex.  She  was  of  a  dark  complexion  (for  15 
in  speaking  of  a  lady  these  trifles  become  important). 
Her  teeth  were  of  a  pearly  whiteness,  and  her  large 
black  eyes  sparkled  with  uncommon  fire,  tempered  by 
the  most  attractive  sweetness.  Her  voice  was  strong  and 
harmonious.  Her  manly  understanding  was  strength-  20 
ened  and  adorned  by  study.  She  was  not  ignorant  of 
the  Latin  tongue,  but  possessed  in  equal  perfection  the 

347 


348  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

Greek,  the  Syriac,  and  the  Eg)'ptian  languages.     She 
had  drawn  up  for  her  own  use  an  epitome  of  Oriental 
history,  and  familiarly  compared  the  beauties  of  Homer  25 
and  Plato  under  the  tuition  of  the  sublime  Longinus. 

This  accomplished  woman  gave  her  hand  to  Odena- 
thus,  who,  from  a  private  station,  raised  himself  to  the 
dominion  of  the  East.  She  soon  became  the  friend 
and  companion  of  a  hero.  In  the  intervals  of  war,  30 
Odenathus  passionately  delighted  in  the  exercise  of 
hunting;  he  pursued  with  ardor  the  wild  beasts  of  the 
desert,  lions,  panthers,  and  bears;  and  the  ardor  of 
Zenobia  in  that  dangerous  amusement  was  not  inferior 
to  his  own.  She  had  inured  her  constitution  to  fatigue,  35 
disdained  the  use  of  a  covered  carriage,  generally  ap- 
peared on  horseback  in  a  military  habit,  and  sometimes 
marched  several  miles  on  foot  at  the  head  of  the  troops. 
The  success  of  Odenathus  was,  in  a  great  measure,  as- 
cribed to  her  incomparable  prudence  and  fortitude.  40 
Their  splendid  victories  over  the  great  king,  whom  they 
twice  pursued  as  far  as  the  gates  of  Ctesiphon,  laid  the 
foundations  of  their  united  fame  and  power.  The 
armies  which  they  commanded,  and  the  provinces  which 
they  had  saved,  acknowledged  not  any  other  sovereigns  45 
than  their  invincible  chiefs.  The  senate  and  people 
of  Rome  revered  a  stranger  who  had  avenged  their  cap- 
tive emperor,  and  even  the  insensible  son  of  Valerian 
accepted  Odenathus  for  his  legitimate  colleague. 

After  a  successful  expedition  against  the  Gothic  plun-  50 
derers  of  Asia,  the  Palmyrenian  prince  returned  to  the 
city  of  Emesa,  in  Syria.  Invincible  in  war,  he  was  there 
cut  off  by  domestic  treason,  and  his  favorite  amusement 
of  hunting  was  the  cause,  or  at  least  the  occasion,  of  his 
death.     His  nephew   Maeonius  presumed   to  dart  his  55 


GIBBON  349 

javelin  before  that  of  his  uncle,  and,  though  admonished 
of  his  error,  repeated  the  same  insolence.  As  a  mon- 
arch and  as  a  sportsman,  Odenathus  was  provoked,  took 
away  his  horse  —  a  mark  of  ignominy  among  the  barba- 
rians —  and  chastised  the  rash  youth  by  a  short  confine-  60 
ment.  The  offence  was  soon  forgot,  but  the  punishment 
was  remembered,  and  Mseonius,  with  a  few  daring  asso- 
ciates, assassinated  his  uncle  in  the  midst  of  a  great  en- 
tertainment. Herod,  the  son  of  Odenathus,  though  not 
of  Zenobia,  a  young  man  of  a  soft  and  effeminate  temper,  65 
was  killed  with  his  father.  But  Mseonius  obtained  only 
the  pleasure  of  revenge  by  this  bloody  deed.  He  had 
scarcely  time  to  assume  the  title  of  Augustus  before  he 
was  sacrificed  by  Zenobia  to  the  memory  of  her  husband. 

With  the  assistance  of  his  most  faithful  friends,  she  70 
immediately  filled  the  vacant  throne,  and  governed  with 
manly  councils  Palmyra,  Syria,  and  the  East  above  five 
years.     By  the  death  of  Odenathus,  that  authority  was  at 
an  end  which  the  senate  had  granted  him  only  as  a  per- 
sonal distinction;   but  his  martial  widow,   disdaining  75 
both  the  senate  and  Gallienus,  obliged  one  of  the  Roman 
generals,  who  was  sent  against  her,  to  retreat  into  Europe, 
with  the  loss  of  his  army  and  his  reputation.     Instead  of 
the  little  passions  which  so  frequently  perplex  a  female 
reign,  the  steady  administration  of  Zenobia  was  guided  80 
by  the  most  judicious  maxims  of  policy.     If  it  was  ex- 
pedient to  pardon,  she  could  calm  her  resentment;  if 
it  was  necessary  to  punish,  she  could  impose  silence  on 
the  voice  of  pity.     Her  strict  economy  was  accused  of 
avarice;   yet  on  every  proper  occasion   she   appeared  85 
magnificent  and  liberal.      The   neighboring   states  of 
Arabia,  Armenia,  and  Persia  dreaded  her  enmity  and 
solicited  her  alliance.     To  the  dominions  of  Odenathus 


3 So  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

«rhich  extended  from  the  Euphrates  to  the  frontiers  of 
Bithynia  his  widow  added  the  inheritance  of  her  ances-  90 
tors,  the  populous  and  fertile  kingdom  of  Egypt.  The 
Emperor  Claudius  acknowledged  her  merit,  and  was  con- 
tent that,  while  he  pursued  the  Gothic  war,  she  should 
assert  the  dignity  of  the  empire  in  the  East.  The  con- 
duct, however,  of  Zenobia  was  attended  with  some  am-  95 
biguity;  nor  is  it  unlikely  that  she  had  conceived  the 
design  of  erecting  an  independent  and  hostile  monarchy. 
She  blended  with  the  popular  manners  of  Roman  princes 
the  stately  pomp  of  the  courts  of  Asia,  and  exacted  from 
her  subjects  the  same  adoration  that  was  paid  to  the  sue- 100 
cessors  of  Cyrus.  She  bestowed  on  her  three  sons  a 
Latin  education,  and  often  showed  them  to  the  troops 
adorned  with  the  imperial  purple.  For  herself  she  re- 
served the  diadem,  with  the  splendid  but  doubtful  title 
of  Queen  of  the  East.  105 

When  Aurelian  passed  over  into  Asia,  against  an  adver- 
sary whose  sex  alone  could  render  her  an  object  of  con- 
tempt, his  presence  restored  obedience  to  the  province 
of  Bithynia,  already  shaken  by  the  arms  and  intrigues  of 
Zenobia.  Advancing  at  the  head  of  his  legions,  he  ac-  no 
cepted  the  submission  of  Ancyra,  and  was  admitted  into 
Tyana,  after  an  obstinate  siege,  by  the  help  of  a  perfidi- 
ous citizen.  The  generous  though  fierce  temper  of  Aure- 
lian abandoned  the  traitor  to  the  rage  of  the  soldiers;  a 
superstitious  reverence  induced  him  to  treat  with  lenity  115 
the  countrymen  of  Apollonius,  the  philosopher.  Antioch 
was  deserted  on  his  approach,  till  the  emperor,  by  his 
salutary  edicts,  recalled  the  fugitives,  and  granted  a  gen- 
eral pardon  to  all  who,  from  necessity  rather  than  choice, 
had  been  engaged  in  the  service  of  the  Palmyrenian  120 
queen.     The  unexpected  mildness  of  such  a  conduct 


GIBBON  351 

reconciled  the  minds  of  the  Syrians,  and,  as  far  as  the 
gates  of  Emesa,  the  wishes  of  the  people  seconded  the 
terror  of  his  arms. 

Zenobia  would  have  ill  deserved  her  reputation  had  125 
she  indolently  permitted  the   Emperor  of  the  West  to 
approach  within  a  hundred  miles  of  her  capital.     The 
fate  of  the  East  was  decided  in  two  great  battles,  so  simi- 
lar, in  almost  every  circumstance,  that  we  can  scarcely 
distinguish  them  from  each  other,  except  by  observing  130 
that  the  first  was  fought  near  Antioch,  and  the  second 
near  Emesa.     In  both  the  Queen  of  Palmyra  animated 
the  armies  by  her  presence,  and  devolved  the  execution 
of  her  orders  on  Zabdas,  who  had  already  signalized  his 
military  talents  by  the  conquest  of  Egypt.     The  numer-  135 
ous  forces  of  Zenobia  consisted  for  the  most  part  of  light 
archers,  and  of  heavy  cavalry  clothed  in  complete  steel. 
The  Moorish  and  Illyrian  horse  of  Aurelian  were  unable 
to  sustain  the  ponderous  charge  of  their  antagonists. 
They  fled  in  real  or  affected  disorder,  engaged  the  Pal-  140 
myrenians  in  a  laborious  pursuit,  harassed  them  by  a 
desultory  combat,  and  at  length  discomfited  this  impene- 
trable but  unwieldy  body  of  cavalry.     The  light  infantry, 
in  the  meantime,  when  they  had  exhausted  their  quivers, 
remaining  without  protection  against  a  closer  onset,  ex- 145 
posed  their  naked  sides  to  the  swords  of  the  legions. 
Aurelian  had  chosen  these  veteran  troops,  who  were  usu- 
ally stationed  on  the  Upper  Danube,  and  whose  valor 
had  been  severely  tried  in  the  Alemannic  war.     After  the 
defeat  of  Emesa,  Zenobia  found  it  impossible  to  collect  150 
a   third  army.     As  far  as  the   frontier  of   Egypt,    the 
nations  subject  to  her  empire  had  joined  the  standard 
of  the  conqueror,  who  detached  Probus,  the  bravest  of 
his  generals,  to  possess  himself  of  the  Egyptian  prov- 


352  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

inces.     Palmyra  was  the  last  resource  of  the  widow  of  155 
Odenathus.     She  retired  within  the  walls  of  her  capital, 
made  every  preparation  for  a  vigorous  resistance,  and 
declared,  with  the  intrepidity  of  a  heroine,  that  the  last 
moment  of  her  reign  and  of  her  life  should  be  the  same. 

Amid  the  barren  deserts  of  Arabia,  a  few  cultivated  160 
spots  rise  like  islands  out  of  the  sandy  ocean.     Even  the 
name  of  Tadmor,  or  Palmyra,  by  its  signification  in  the 
Syriac  as  well  as  in  the  Latin  language,  denoted  the  mul- 
titude of  palm-trees  which  afforded  shade  and  verdure 
to  that  temperate  region.     The  air  was  pure,  and  the  165 
soil,  watered  by  some  invaluable  springs,  was  capable  of 
producing  fruits  as  well  as  com.     A  place  possessed  of 
such  singular  advantages,  and  situated  at  a  convenient 
distance  between  the  Gulf  of  Persia  and  the  Mediterra- 
nean, was  soon  frequented  by  the  caravans  which  con- 170 
veyed  to  the  nations  of   Europe  a  considerable  part  of 
the  rich  commodities  of  India.     Palmyra  insensibly  in- 
creased into  an  opulent  and  independent  city,  and,  con- 
necting the  Roman  and  the  Parthian  monarchies  by  the 
mutual  benefits  of  commerce,  was  suffered  to  observe  a  175 
humble  neutrality,  till  at  length,  after  the  victories  of 
Trajan,  the  little  republic  sank  into  the  bosom  of  Rome, 
and  flourished  more  than  one  hundred  and  fifty  years  in 
the  subordinate  though  honorable  rank  of  a  colony.     It 
was  during  that  peaceful  period,  if  we  may  judge  from  a  180 
few  remaining  inscriptions,  that  the  wealthy  Palmyre- 
nians  constructed  those  temples,  palaces,  and  porticos 
of  Grecian  architecture  whose  ruins,  scattered  over  an 
extent  of  several  miles,  have  deserved  the  curiosity  of 
our  travellers.     The  elevation  of  Odenathus  and  Zenobia  185 
appeared  to  reflect  new  splendor  on  their  country,  and 
Palmyra,  for  a  while,  stood  forth  the  rival  of  Rome;  but 


GIBBON  353 

the  competition  was  fatal,  and  ages  of  prosperity  were 
sacrificed  to  a  moment  of  glory. 

In  his  march  over  the  sandy  desert  between  Emesa  190 
and   Palmyra,    the    Emperor   Aurelian  was  perpetually 
harassed  by  the  Arabs;  nor  could  he  always  defend  his 
army,   and   especially  his   baggage,   from   those  flying 
troops  of  active  and  daring  robbers,  who  watched  the 
moment  of  surprise,  and  eluded  the  slow  pursuit  of  the  195 
legions.     The  siege  of  Palmyra  was  an  object  far  more 
difficult  and  important,  and  the  emperor,  who,  with  in- 
cessant vigor,  pressed  the  attacks  in  person,  was  himself 
wounded  with  a  dart.     "The  Roman  people,"  says  Au- 
relian, in  an  original  letter,  "  speak  with  contempt  of  200 
the  war  which  I  am  waging  against  a  woman.     They  are 
ignorant  both  of  the  character  and  of  the  power  of  Zeno- 
bia.     It  is  impossible  to  enumerate  her  warlike  prepara- 
tions of  stones,  of  arrows,  and  of  every  species  of  missile 
weapons.     Every  part  of  the  walls  is  provided  with  two  205 
or  three  balistce,  and  artificial  fires  are  thrown  from  her 
military  engines.     The  fear  of  punishment  has  armed 
her  with  a  desperate  courage.     Yet  still  I  trust  in  the 
protecting  deities  of  Rome,  who  have  hitherto  been 
favorable  to  all  my  undertakings."     Doubtful,  however,  210 
of  the  protection  of  the  gods,  and  of  the  event  of  the 
siege,  Aurelian  judged  it  more  prudent  to  offer  terms  of 
an  advantageous  capitulation :  to  the  queen,  a  splendid 
retreat;  to  the  citizens,  their  ancient  privileges.     His 
proposals  were  obstinately  rejected,  and  the  refusal  was  215 
accompanied  with  insult. 

The  firmness  of  Zenobia  was  supported  by  the  hope 
that  in  a  very  short  time  famine  would  compel  the  Roman 
army  to  repass  the  desert,  and  by  the  reasonable  expecta- 
tion that  the  kings  of  the  East,  and  particularly  the  Per-  22c 


354  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

sian  monarch,  would  arm  in  the  defence  of  their  most 
natural  ally.  But  fortune,  and  the  perseverance  of  Aure- 
lian,  overcame  every  obstacle.  The  death  of  Sapor, 
which  happened  about  this  time,  distracted  the  councils 
of  Persia,  and  the  inconsiderable  succors  that  attempted  225 
to  relieve  Palmyra  were  easily  intercepted  either  by  the 
arms  or  the  liberality  of  the  emperor.  From  every  part 
of  Syria  a  regular  succession  of  convoys  safely  arrived  in 
the  camp,  which  was  increased  by  the  return  of  Probus 
with  his  victorious  troops  from  the  conquest  of  Egypt.  230 
It  was  then  that  Zenobia  resolved  to  fly.  She  mounted 
the  fleetest  of  her  dromedaries,  and  had  already  reached 
the  banks  of  the  Euphrates,  about  sixty  miles  from  Pal- 
myra, when  she  was  overtaken  by  the  pursuit  of  Aure- 
lian's  light  horse,  seized,  and  brought  back  a  captive  to  235 
the  feet  of  the  emperor.  Her  capital  soon  afterwards 
surrendered,  and  was  treated  with  unexpected  lenity. 
The  arms,  horses,  and  camels,  with  an  immense  treasure 
of  gold,  silver,  silk,  and  precious  stones,  were  all  de- 
livered to  the  conqueror,  who,  leaving  only  a  garrison  240 
of  six  hundred  archers,  returned  to  Emesa,  and  em- 
ployed some  time  in  the  distribution  of  rewards  and 
punishments  at  the  end  of  so  memorable  a  war,  which 
restored  to  the  obedience  of  Rome  those  provinces  that 
had  renounced  their  allegiance  since  the  captivity  of  245 
Valerian. 

When  the  Syrian  queen  was  brought  into  the  presence 
of  Aurelian,  he  sternly  asked  her  how  she  had  presumed 
to  rise  in  arms  against  the  emperors  of  Rome !  The 
answer  of  Zenobia  was  a  prudent  mixture  of  respect  and  250 
firmness:  "Because  I  disdained  to  consider  as  Roman 
emperors  an  Aureolus  or  a  Gallienus.  You  alone  I  ac- 
knowledge as  my  conqueror  and  my  sovereign."     But  as 


GIBBON  355 

female  fortitude  is  commonly  artificial,  so  it  is  seldom 
steady  or  consistent.     The  courage  of  Zenobia  deserted  255 
her  in  the  hour  of  trial.     She  trembled  at  the  angry 
clamors  of  the  soldiers,  who  called  aloud  for  her  imme- 
diate execution,  forgot  the  generous  despair  of  Cleopatra, 
which  she  had  proposed  as  her  model,  and   ignomini- 
ously  purchased  life  by  the  sacrifice  of  her  fame  and  her  260 
friends.     It  was  to  their  counsels,  which  governed  the 
weakness  of  her  sex,  that  she  imputed  the  guilt  of  her 
obstinate  resistance;  it  was  on  their  heads  that  she  di- 
rected the  vengeance  of  the  cruel  Aurelian.     The  fame 
of  Longinus,  who  was  included  among  the  numerous  and  265 
perhaps  innocent  victims  of  her  fear,  will  survive  that 
of  the  queen  who  betrayed,  or  the  tyrant  who  condemned 
him.     Genius  and  learning  were  incapable  of  moving 
a  fierce,  unlettered  soldier,  but  they  had  served  to  ele- 
vate  and  harmonize   the    soul  of    Longinus.     Without  270 
uttering  a  complaint,   he  calmly  followed   the  execu- 
tioner,  pitying   his   unhappy  mistress,   and   bestowing 
comfort  on  his  afflicted  friends. 

Since  the  foundation  of  Rome,  no  general  had  more 
nobly  deserved  a  triumph  than  Aurelian;  nor  was  a  tri-  275 
umph  ever  celebrated  with  superior  pride  and  magnifi- 
cence. The  pomp  was  opened  by  twenty  elephants, 
four  royal  tigers,  and  above  two  hundred  of  the  most 
curious  animals  from  every  climate  of  the  north,  the 
east,  and  the  south.  They  were  followed  by  sixteen  280 
hundred  gladiators,  devoted  to  the  cruel  amusement  of 
the  amphitheatre.  The  wealth  of  Asia,  the  arms  and 
ensigns  of  so  many  conquered  nations,  and  the  magnifi- 
cent plate  and  wardrobe  of  the  Syrian  queen,  were 
disposed   in  exact  symmetry  or  artful  disorder.     The  285 


356  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

ambassadors  of  the  most  remote  parts  of  the  earth,  of 
Ethiopia,  Arabia,  Persia,  Bactriana,  India,  and  China, 
all  remarkable  by  their  rich  or  singular  dresses,  dis- 
played the  fame  and  power  of  the  Roman  emperor, 
who  exposed  likewise  to  the  public  view  the  presents  290 
that  he  had  received,  and  particularly  a  great  number 
of  crowns  of  gold,  the  offerings  of  grateful  cities.  The 
victories  of  Aurelian  were  attested  by  the  long  train  of 
captives  who  reluctantly  attended  his  triumph  —  Goths, 
Vandals,  Sarmatians,  Alemanni,  Franks,  Gauls,  Syrians,  295 
and  Egyptians.  Each  people  was  distinguished  by  its 
peculiar  inscription,  and  the  title  of  Amazons  was  be- 
stowed on  ten  martial  heroines  of  the  Gothic  nation  who 
had  been  taken  in  arms.  But  every  eye,  disregarding 
the  crowd  of  captives,  was  fixed  on  the  Emperor  Tetri-  300 
CUB  and  the  Queen  of  the  East.  The  former,  as  well  as 
his  son,  whom  he  had  created  Augustus,  was  dressed  in 
Gallic  trousers,  a  saffron  tunic,  and  a  robe  of  purple. 
The  beauteous  figure  of  Zenobia  was  confined  by  fetters 
of  gold;  a  slave  supported  the  gold  chain  which  encircled  305 
her  neck,  and  she  almost  fainted  under  the  intolerable 
weight  of  jewels.  She  preceded  on  foot  the  magnificent 
chariot,  in  which  she  once  hoped  to  enter  the  gates  of 
Rome.  It  was  followed  by  two  other  chariots,  still  more 
sumptuous,  of  Odenathus  and  of  the  Persian  monarch.  310 
The  triumphal  car  of  Aurelian  (it  had  formerly  been 
used  by  a  Gothic  king)  was  drawn,  on  this  memorable 
occasion,  either  by  four  stags  or  by  four  elephants.  The 
most  illustrious  of  the  senate,  the  people,  and  the  army 
closed  the  solemn  procession.  Unfeigned  joy,  wonder,  315 
and  gratitude  swelled  the  acclamations  of  the  multitude; 
but  the  satisfaction  of  the  senate  was  clouded  by  the  ap- 
pearance of  Tetricus;  nor  could  they  suppress  a  rising 


GIBBON'  357 

murmur,  that  the  haughty  emperor  should  thus  expose  to 
public  ignominy  the  person  of  a  Roman  and  a  magistrate.  320 

But,  however  in  the  treatment  of  his  unfortunate  rivals 
Aurelian  might  indulge  his  pride,  he  behaved  towards 
them  with  a  generous  clemency,  which  was  seldom  exer- 
cised by  the  ancient  conquerors.  Princes  who,  without 
success,  had  defended  their  throne  or  freedom,  were  fre-  325 
quently  strangled  in  prison,  as  soon  as  the  triumphal 
pomp  ascended  the  Capitol.  These  usurpers,  whom 
their  defeat  had  convicted  of  the  crime  of  treason,  were 
permitted  to  spend  their  lives  in  affluence  and  honorable 
repose.  The  emperor  presented  Zenobia  with  an  elegant  330 
villa  at  Tibur,  or  Tivoli,  about  twenty  miles  from  the 
capital;  the  Syrian  queen  insensibly  sunk  into  a  Roman 
matron,  her  daughters  married  into  noble  families,  and 
her  race  was  not  yet  extinct  in  the  fifth  century. 


WILLIAM    BLAKE 

(1757-1827) 

TO   THE   EVENING   STAR 

Thou  fair-haired  Angel  of  the  Evening, 

Now  whilst  the  sun  rests  on  the  mountains,  light 

Thy  bright  torch  of  love  —  thy  radiant  crown 

Put  on,  and  smile  upon  our  evening  bed ! 

Smile  on  our  loves;  and  while  thou  drawest  the 

Blue  curtains  of  the  sky,  scatter  thy  silver  dew 

On  every  flower  that  shuts  its  sweet  eyes 

In  timely  sleep.     Let  thy  West  Wind  sleep  on 

The  lake;  speak  silence  with  thy  glimmering  eyes 

And  wash  the  dusk  with  silver.  —  Soon,  full  soon, 

Dost  thou  withdraw;  then  the  wolf  rages  wide, 

And  the  lion  glares  through  the  dun  forest, 

The  fleeces  of  our  flocks  are  covered  with 

Thy  sacred  dew;  protect  them  with  thine  influence! 


SONG 

Mv  silks  and  fine  array, 

My  smiles  and  languished  air, 
By  love  are  driven  away; 

And  mournful  lean  Despair 
Brings  me  yew  to  deck  my  grave; 
Such  end  true  lovers  have. 
358 


BLAKE  359 

His  face  is  fair  as  heaven 

When  springing  buds  unfold; 
Oh,  why  to  him  was't  given 

Whose  heart  is  wintry  cold?  lo 

His  breast  is  love's  all-worshipped  tomb 
Where  all  love's  pilgrims  come. 

Bring  me  an  axe  and  spade, 

Bring  me  a  winding  sheet; 
When  I  my  grave  have  made,  15 

Let  winds  and  tempest  beat; 
Then  down  I'll  lie  as  cold  as  clay. 
True  love  doth  pass  away ! 


SONG 

How  sweet  I  roamed  from  field  to  field, 

And  tasted  all  the  summer's  pride; 
Till  I  the  Prince  of  love  beheld, 

Who  in  the  sunny  beams  did  glide. 

He  showed  me  lilies  for  my  hair,  5 

And  blushing  roses  for  my  brow; 
And  led  me  through  his  gardens  fair. 

Where  all  his  golden  pleasures  grow. 

With  sweet  May-dews  my  wings  were  wet, 

And  Phoebus  fired  my  vocal  rage;  10 

He  caught  me  in  his  silken  net, 
And  shut  me  in  his  golden  cage. 

He  loves  to  sit  and  hear  me  sing, 

Then  laughing  sports  and  plays  with  me. 

Then  stretches  out  my  golden  wing,  15 

And  mocks  my  loss  of  liberty. 


360  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

SONG 

Memory,  hither  come 

And  tune  your  merry  notes; 
And  while  upon  the  wind 

Your  music  floats, 
I'll  pore  upon  the  stream  5 

Where  sighing  lovers  dream, 
And  fish  for  fancies  as  they  pass 
Within  the  watery  glass. 

I'll  drink  of  the  clear  stream, 

And  hear  the  linnet's  song,  lo 

And  there  I'll  lie  and  dream 

The  day  along; 
And  when  night  comes  I'll  go 
To  places  fit  for  woe, 

Walking  along  the  darkened  valley,  15 

With  silent  Melancholy. 


MAD   SONG 


The  wild  winds  weep. 

And  the  night  is  a-cold, 
Come  hither,  Sleep, 

And  my  griefs  enfold : 
But  lo!  the  morning  peeps 
Over  the  eastern  steeps. 
And  the  rustling  beds  of  dawn 
The  earth  do  scorn, 

Lo !  to  the  vault 

Of  pav^d  heaven 
With  sorrow  fraught 

My  notes  are  driven; 


BLAKE  361 

They  strike  the  ear  of  night, 

Make  weak  the  eyes  of  day; 

They  make  mad  the  roaring  winds  15 

And  with  tempests  play. 

Like  a  fiend  in  a  cloud 

With  howling  woe 
After  night  I  do  crowd 

And  with  night  will  go;  20 

I  turn  my  back  to  the  east 
From  whence  comforts  have  increased; 
For  light  doth  seize  my  brain 
With  frantic  pain. 


TO   THE   MUSES 

Whether  on  Ida's  shady  brow. 
Or  in  the  chambers  of  the  East, 

The  chambers  of  the  Sun  that  now 
From  ancient  melody  have  ceased; 

Whether  in  Heaven  ye  wander  fair, 
Or  the  green  corners  of  the  Earth, 

Or  the  blue  regions  of  the  air, 
Where  the  melodious  winds  have  birth; 

Whether  on  crystal  rocks  ye  rove 
Beneath  the  bosom  of  the  sea, 

Wandering  in  many  a  coral  grove; 
Fair  Nine,  forsaking  Poetry: 

How  have  you  left  your  ancient  love 
That  bards  of  old  enjoyed  in  you! 

The  languid  strings  do  scarcely  move. 
The  sound  is  forced,  the  notes  are  few. 


362  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

SONG 

Piping  down  the  valleys  wild. 
Piping  songs  of  pleasant  glee, 
On  a  cloud  I  saw  a  child, 
And  he  laughing  said  to  me :  — 

'Pipe  a  song  about  a  lamb: '  5 

So  I  piped  with  merry  cheer. 
'Piper,  pipe  that  song  again: ' 
So  I  piped;  he  wept  to  hear. 

'Drop  thy  pipe,  thy  happy  pipe, 

Sing  thy  songs  of  happy  cheer: '  10 

So  I  sung  the  same  again, 

While  he  wept  with  joy  to  hear. 

'Piper,  sit  thee  down  and  write 

In  a  book  that  all  may  read  '  — 

So  he  vanished  from  my  sight;  15 

And  I  plucked  a  hollow  reed. 

And  I  made  a  rural  pen. 

And  I  stained  the  water  clear, 

And  I  wrote  my  happy  songs, 

Every  child  may  joy  to  hear.  20 


THE   LAMB 


Little  lamb,  who  made  thee? 
Dost  thou  know  who  made  thee, 
Gave  thee  life  and  bade  thee  feed 
By  the  stream  and  o'er  the  mead; 


BLAKE  363 

Gave  thee  clothing  of  delight,  5 

Softest  clothing,  woolly,  bright; 
Gave  thee  such  a  tender  voice. 
Making  all  the  vales  rejoice ! 

Little  lamb,  who  made  thee? 

Dost  thou  know  who  made  thee  ?  10 

Little  lamb,  I'll  tell  thee; 

Little  lamb,  I'll  tell  thee. 

He  is  called  by  thy  name, 

For  He  calls  himself  a  Lamb; 

He  is  meek  and  He  is  mild,  15 

He  became  a  little  child. 

I  a  child  and  thou  a  lamb, 

We  are  called  by  His  name. 

Little  lamb,  God  bless  thee ! 

Little  lamb,  God  bless  thee !  20 


NIGHT 


The  sun  descending  in  the  west, 
The  evening  star  does  shine; 
The  birds  are  silent  in  their  nest. 
And  I  must  seek  for  mine. 
The  moon,  like  a  flower 
In  heaven's  high  bower, 
With  silent  delight 
Sits  and  smiles  on  the  night. 

Farewell,  green  fields  and  happy  grove, 
Where  flocks  have  ta'en  delight; 
Where  lambs  have  nibbled,  silent  move 
The  feet  of  angels  bright: 


364  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

Unseen  they  pour  blessing, 

And  joy  without  ceasing, 

On  each  bud  and  blossom,  15 

On  each  sleeping  bosom. 

They  look  in  every  thoughtless  nest. 

Where  birds  are  covered  warm ; 

They  visit  caves  of  every  beast. 

To  keep  them  all  from  harm.  20 

If  they  see  any  weeping 

That  should  have  been  sleeping, 

They  pour  sleep  on  their  head, 

And  sit  down  by  their  bed. 

When  wolves  and  tigers  howl  for  prey  25 

They  pitying  stand  and  weep, 

Seeking  to  drive  their  thirst  away, 

And  keep  them  from  the  sheep. 

But  if  they  rush  dreadful 

The  angels  most  heedful  30 

Receive  each  mild  spirit 

New  worlds  to  inherit. 

And  there  the  lion's  ruddy  eyes 

Shall  flow  with  tears  of  gold : 

And  pitying  the  tender  cries,  35 

And  walking  round  the  fold, 

Saying  :  *  Wrath  by  His  meekness, 

And  by  His  health  sickness, 

Are  driven  away 

From  our  immortal  day.  40 

And  now  beside  thee,  bleating  lamb, 
I  can  lie  down  and  sleep. 
Or  think  on  Him  who  bore  thy  name, 
Graze  after  thee,  and  weep. 


BLAKE  ■  365 

For,  washed  in  life's  river,  45 

My  bright  mane  for  ever 
Shall  shine  like  the  gold 
As  I  guard  o'er  the  fold.' 


AH,   SUNFLOWER 

Ah,  Sunflower,  weary  of  time, 
Who  countest  the  steps  of  the  sun, 
Seeking  after  that  sweet  golden  clime 
Where  the  traveller's  journey  is  done  — 

Where  the  youth  pined  away  with  desire, 
And  the  pale  virgin,  shrouded  in  snow, 
Arise  from  their  graves,  and  aspire 
Where  my  sunflower  wishes  to  go ! 


THE   TIGER 

Tiger,  tiger,  burning  bright 
In  the  forests  of  the  night, 
What  immortal  hand  or  eye 
Could  frame  thy  fearful  symmetry? 

In  what  distant  deeps  or  skies 
Burnt  the  fire  of  thine  eyes? 
On  what  wings  dare  he  aspire? 
What  the  hand  dare  seize  the  fire? 

And  what  shoulder,  and  what  art. 
Could  twist  the  sinews  of  thy  heart? 
And  when  thy  heart  began  to  beat, 
What  dread  hand?  and  what  dread  feet? 


366  •    FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

What  the  hammer?  what  the  chain? 
In  what  furnace  was  thy  brain? 
What  the  anvil?     What  dread  grasp 
Dare  its  deadly  terrors  clasp? 

When  the  stars  threw  down  their  spears, 
And  watered  heaven  with  their  tears, 
Did  He  smile  His  work  to  see? 
Did  He  who  made  the  lamb,  make  thee? 

Tiger,  tiger,  burning  bright 
In  the  forests  of  the  night. 
What  immortal  hand  or  eye 
Dare  frame  thy  fearful  symmetry? 


THE   ANGEL 

I  DREAMT  a  dream !     What  can  it  mean? 
And  that  I  was  a  maiden  queen. 
Guarded  by  an  angel  mild; 
Witless  woe  was  ne'er  beguiled. 

And  I  wept  both  night  and  day,  5 

And  he  wiped  my  tears  away; 
And  I  wept  both  day  and  night. 
And  hid  from  him  my  heart's  delight. 

So  he  took  his  wings  and  fled; 

Then  the  morn  blushed  rosy  red;  10 

I  dried  my  tears  and  armed  my  fears 

With  ten  thousand  shields  and  spears. 

Soon  my  angel  came  again : 

I  was  armed,  he  came  in  vain; 

For  the  time  of  youth  was  fled,  15 

And  grey  hairs  were  on  my  head. 


ROBERT    BURNS 

(1759-1796) 

MARY   MORISON 
TUNE :  "  Bide  ye  yet " 

0  Mary,  at  thy  window  be, 

It  is  the  wish'd,  the  trysted  hour! 
Those  smiles  and  glances  let  me  see, 

That  makes  the  miser's  treasure  poor: 
How  blythely  wad  I  bide  the  stoure,  5 

A  weary  slave  frae  sun  to  sun; 
Could  I  the  rich  reward  secure, 

The  lovely  Mary  Morison. 

Yestreen,  when  to  the  trembling  string 

The  dance  gaed  thro'  the  lighted  ha',  10 

To  thee  my  fancy  took  its  wing, 
I  sat,  but  neither  heard  or  saw : 

Tho'  this  was  fair,  and  that  was  braw, 
And  yon  the  toast  of  a'  the  town, 

1  sigh'd,  and  said  amang  them  a',  15 
"Ye  are  nae  Mary  Morison." 

O  Mary,  canst  thou  wreck  his  peace, 

Wha  for  thy  sake  wad  gladly  die? 

Or  canst  thou  break  that  heart  of  his, 

Whase  only  faut  is  loving  thee?  20 

367 


368  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

If  love  for  love  thou  wilt  na  gie, 
At  least  be  pity  to  me  shown; 

A  thought  ungentle  canna  be 
The  thought  o'  Mary  Morison. 


THE   COTTER'S   SATURDAY   NIGHT 

INSCRIBED  TO   R,   AIKEN,   ESQ. 

Let  not  Ambition  mock  their  useful  toil, 

Their  homely  joys,  and  destiny  obscure ; 
Nor  Grandeur  hear,  with  a  disdainful  smile, 

The  short  but  simple  annals  of  the  Poor.  —  Gray. 

My  loved,  my  honoured,  much  respected  friend ! 

No  mercenary  bard  his  homage  pays; 

With  honest  pride,  I  scorn  each  selfish  end, 

My  dearest  meed,  a  friend's  esteem  and  praise: 

To  you  I  sing,  in  simple  Scottish  lays,  5 

The  lowly  train  in  life's  sequestered  scene; 

The  native  feelings  strong,  the  guileless  ways; 

What  Aiken  in  a  cottage  would  have  been; 

Ah !  though  his  worth  unknown,  far  happier  there,  I  ween. 

November  chill  blaws  loud  wi'  angry  sugh;  10 

The  short' ning  winter-day  is  near  a  close; 

The  miry  beasts  retreating  frae  the  pleugh; 

The  black'ning  trains  o'  craws  to  their  repose; 

The  toil-worn  Cotter  frae  his  labour  goes,  — 

This  night  his  weekly  moil  is  at  an  end,  15 

Collects  his  spades,  his  mattocks,  and  his  hoes. 

Hoping  the  morn  in  ease  and  rest  to  spend, 

And  weary,  o'er  the  moor,  his  course  does  hameward  bend. 


BURNS  369 

At  length  his  lonely  cot  appears  in  view, 

Beneath  the  shelter  of  an  aged  tree;  20 

Th'  expectant  wee-things,  toddlin,  stacher  thro', 

To  meet  their  Dad,  wi'  flichterin  noise  an'  glee. 

His  wee  bit  ingle,  blinkin  bonnily. 

His  clean  hearth-stane,  his  thriftie  wifie's  smile, 

The  lisping  infant  prattling  on  his  knee,  45 

Does  a'  his  weary  carking  cares  beguile. 

An'  makes  him  quite  forget  his  labour  an'  his  toil. 

Belyve,  the  elder  bairns  come  drapping  in. 

At  service  out,  amang  the  farmers  roun' ; 

Some  ca'  the  pleugh,  some  herd,  some  tentie  rin       30 

A  cannie  errand  to  a  neebor  town : 

Their  eldest  hope,  their  Jenny,  woman  grown, 

In  youthfu'  bloom,  love  sparkling  in  her  e'e, 

Comes  hame,  perhaps,  to  show  a  braw  new  gown, 

Or  deposite  her  sair-won  penny-fee,  35 

To  help  her  parents  dear,  if  they  in  hardship  be. 

Wi'  joy  unfeigned  brothers  and  sisters  meet. 

An'  each  for  other's  welfare  kindly  spiers: 

The  social  hours,  swift-winged,  unnoticed  fleet, 

Each  tells  the  uncos  that  he  sees  or  hears;  40 

The  parents,  partial,  eye  their  hopeful  years, 

Anticipation  forward  points  the  view. 

The  mother,  wi'  her  needle  an'  her  sheers. 

Gars  auld  claes  look  amaist  as  weel's  the  new; 

The  father  mixes  a'  wi'  admonition  due.  45 

Their  master's  an'  their  mistress's  command, 
The  younkers  a'  are  warned  to  obey; 
And  mind  their  labours  wi'  an  eydent  hand. 
And  ne'er,  tho'  out  o'  sight,  to  jauk  or  play: 

2B 


370  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

'And,  oh!  be  sure  to  fear  the  Lord  alway,  50 

And  mind  your  duty,  duly  morn  and  night ! 

Lest  in  temptation's  path  ye  gang  astray, 

Implore  His  counsel  and  assisting  might : 

They  never  sought  in  vain  that  sought  the  Lord  aright !  * 

But,  hark!  a  rap  comes  gently  to  the  door;  55 

Jenny,  wha  kens  the  meaning  o'  the  same. 
Tells  how  a  neibor  lad  came  o'er  the  moor, 
To  do  some  errands,  and  convoy  her  hame. 
The  wily  mother  sees  the  conscious  flame 
Sparkle  in  Jenny's  e'e,  and  flush  her  cheek;  60 

Wi'  heart-struck  anxious  care,  inquires  his  name, 
While  Jenny  hafilins  is  afraid  to  speak; 
Weel  pleased  the  mother  hears,  it's  nae  wild  worthless 
rake. 

Wi'  kindly  welcome  Jenny  brings  him  ben; 
A  strappan  youth;  he  takes  the  mother's  eye;  65 

Blythe  Jenny  sees  the  visit's  no  ill  ta'en; 
The  father  cracks  of  horses,  pleughs,  and  kye. 
The  youngster's  artless  heart  o'erflows  wi'  joy. 
But,  blate  and  laithfu',  scarce  can  weel  behave; 
The  mother,  wi'  a  woman's  wiles,  can  spy  70 

What  makes  the  youth  sae  bashfu'  an'  sae  grave; 
Weel  pleased  to  think  her  bairn's  respected  like  the 
lave. 

O  happy  love!  where  love  like  this  is  found! 

O  heart-felt  raptures !  bliss  beyond  compare ! 

I've  paced  much  this  weary,  mortal  round,  75 

And  sage  experience  bids  me  this  declare  — 

*  If  Heaven  a  draught  of  heavenly  pleasure  spare. 


BURNS  371 

One  cordial  in  this  melancholy  vale, 

'Tis  when  a  youthful,  loving,  modest  pair, 

In  other's  arms  breathe  out  the  tender  tale,  80 

Beneath  the  milk-white  thorn  that  scents  the  evening  gale ! ' 

Is  there,  in  human  form,  that  bears  a  heart 

A  wretch !  a  villain !  lost  to  love  and  truth ! 

That  can,  with  studied,  sly,  ensnaring  art, 

Betray  sweet  Jenny's  unsuspecting  youth?  85 

Curse  on  his  perjured  arts!  dissembling  smooth! 

Are  honour,  virtue,  conscience,  all  exiled? 

Is  there  no  pity,  no  relenting  ruth, 

Points  to  the  parents  fondling  o'er  their  child? 

Then  paints  the  ruined  maid,  and  their  distraction  wild.  90 

But  now  the  supper  crowns  their  simple  board, 

The  halesome  parritch,  chief  o'  Scotia's  food: 

The  sowpe  their  only  hawkie  does  afford, 

That  'yont  the  hallan  snugly  chows  her  cood; 

The  dame  brings  forth  in  complimental  mood,  95 

To  grace  the  lad,  her  weel-hained  kebbuck,  fell. 

An'  aft  he's  prest,  an'  aft  he  ca's  it  guid; 

The  frugal  wifie,  garrulous,  will  tell 

How  'twas  a  towmond  auld,  sin'  lint  was  i'  the  bell. 

The  cheerfu'  supper  done,  wi'  serious  face,  100 

They,  round  the  ingle,  form  a  circle  wide; 

The  sire  turns  o'er,  wi'  patriarchal  grace, 

The  big  ha'-Bible,  ance  his  father's  pride: 

His  bonnet  reverently  is  laid  aside. 

His  lyart  haffets  wearing  thin  an'  bare;  105 

Those  strains  that  once  did  sweet  in  Zion  glide, 

He  wales  a  portion  with  judicious  care; 

And  'Let  us  worship  God! '  he  says,  with  solemn  air. 


372  FRO^f  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

They  chant  their  artless  notes  in  simple  guise; 

They  tune  their  hearts,  by  far  the  noblest  aim:  nc 

Perhaps  'Dundee's  '  wild  warbling  measures  rise, 

Or  plaintive  'Martyrs,'  worthy  of  the  name; 

Or  noble  'Elgin '  beets  the  heavenward  flame, 

The  sweetest  far  of  Scotia's  holy  lays: 

Compared  with  these,  Italian  trills  are  tame;  115 

The  tickled  ears  no  heart-felt  raptures  raise; 

Nae  unison  hae  they  with  our  Creator's  praise. 

The  priest-like  father  reads  the  sacred  page. 

How  Abram  was  the  friend  of  God  on  high; 

Or  Moses  bade  eternal  warfare  wage  j2o 

With  Amalek's  ungracious  progeny; 

Or  how  the  royal  Bard  did  groaning  lie 

Beneath  the  stroke  of  Heaven's  avenging  ire; 

Or  Job's  pathetic  plaint,  and  wailing  cry; 

Or  rapt  Isaiah's  wild,  seraphic  fire;  125 

Or  other  holy  seers  that  tune  the  sacred  lyre. 

Perhaps  the  Christian  volume  is  the  theme. 
How  guiltless  blood  for  guilty  man  was  shed ; 
How  He,  who  bore  in  Heaven  the  second  name. 
Had  not  on  earth  whereon  to  lay  His  head:  130 

How  His  first  followers  and  servants  sped; 
The  precepts  sage  they  wrote  to  many  a  land : 
How  he,  who  lone  in  Patmos  banished, 
Saw  in  the  sun  a  mighty  angel  stand; 
And  heard  great  Babylon's  doom  pronounced  by  Heaven's  135 
command. 

Then  kneeling  down,  to  Heaven's  Eternal  King, 
The  saint,  the  father,  and  the  husband  prays: 
Hope  'springs  exulting  on  triumphant  wing,' 
That  thus  they  all  shall  meet  in  future  days: 


BURNS  373 

There  ever  bask  in  uncreated  rays,  140 

No  more  to  sigh,  or  shed  the  bitter  tear. 

Together  hymning  their  Creator's  praise. 

In  such  society,  yet  still  more  dear; 

While  circling  time  moves  round  in  an  eternal  sphere. 

Compared  with  this,  how  poor  Religion's  pride,  145 

In  all  the  pomp  of  method,  and  of  art, 

When  men  display  to  congregations  wide 

Devotion's  every  grace,  except  the  heart! 

The  Power,  incensed,  the  pageant  will  desert, 

The  pompous  strain,  the  sacerdotal  stole;  150 

But  haply,  in  some  cottage  far  apart. 

May  hear,  well  pleased,  the  language  of  the  soul; 

And  in  His  book  of  life  the  inmates  poor  enroll. 

Then  homeward  all  take  off  their  several  way; 

The  youngling  cottagers  retire  to  rest :  155 

The  parent-pair  their  secret  homage  pay. 

And  proffer  up  to  Heaven  the  warm  request, 

That  He,  who  stills  the  raven's  clamorous  nest, 

And  decks  the  lily  fair  in  flowery  pride. 

Would,  in  the  way  His  wisdom  sees  the  best,  160 

For  them,  and  for  their  little  ones  provide; 

But  chiefly,  in  their  hearts  with  grace  divine  preside. 

From  scenes  like  these  old  Scotia's  grandeur  springs. 

That  makes  her  loved  at  home,  revered  abroad : 

Princes  and  lords  are  but  the  breath  of  kings;  165 

'An  honest  man's  the  noblest  work  of  God: ' 

And  certes,  in  fair  virtue's  heavenly  road, 

The  cottage  leaves  the  palace  far  behind ; 

What  is  a  lordling's  pomp?  a  cumbrous  load. 

Disguising  oft  the  wretch  of  human  kind,  170 

Studied  in  arts  of  hell,  in  wickedness  refined ! 


374  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

O  Scotia !  my  dear,  my  native  soil ! 

For  whom  my  warmest  wish  to  Heaven  is  sent, 

Long  may  thy  hardy  sons  of  rustic  toil 

Be  blest  with  health,  and  peace,  and  sweet  content !     175 

And,  oh,  may  Heaven  their  simple  lives  prevent 

From  luxury's  contagion,  weak  and  vile ! 

Then,  howe'er  crowns  and  coronets  be  rent, 

A  virtuous  populace  may  rise  the  while. 

And  stand  a  wall  of  fire  around  their  much-loved  Isle.  180 

O  Thou !  who  poured  the  patriotic  tide 

That  streamed  thro'  Wallace's  undaunted  heart; 

Who  dared  to  nobly  stem  tyrannic  pride. 

Or  nobly  die,  the  second  glorious  part, 

(The  patriot's  God  peculiarly  Thou  art,  185 

His  friend,  inspirer,  guardian,  and  reward !) 

O  never,  never  Scotia's  realm  desert; 

But  still  the  patriot,  and  the  patriot-bard. 

In  bright  succession  raise,  her  ornament  and  guard ! 


I   LOVE   MY  JEAN 
TUNE:  "Miss  Admiral  Gordon's  Strathspey'* 

Of  a'  the  airts  the  wind  can  blaw, 

I  dearly  like  the  west, 
For  there  the  bonnie  lassie  lives, 

The  lassie  I  lo'e  best: 
There  wild  woods  grow,  and  rivers  row. 

And  monie  a  hill  between; 
But  day  and  night  my  fancy's  flight 

Is  ever  wi'  my  Jean. 


BURNS  375 

I  see  her  in  the  dewy  flowers, 

I  see  her  sweet  and  fair :  lo 

I  hear  her  in  the  tunefu'  birds, 

I  hear  her  charm  the  air : 
There's  not  a  bonnie  flower  that  springs 

By  fountain,  shaw,  or  green; 
There's  not  a  bonnie  bird  that  sings,  15 

But  minds  me  o'  my  Jean. 


TO   A   MOUNTAIN   DAISY 

ON  TURNING   ONE   DOWN    WrrH   THE   PLOUGH,   IN   APRIL,    1 786 

Wee,  modest,  crimson-tipped  flow'r, 
Thou's  met  me  in  an  evil  hour; 
For  I  maun  crush  amang  the  stoure 

Thy  slender  stem. 
To  spare  thee  now  is  past  my  pow'r. 

Thou  bonnie  gem. 

Alas!  it's  no  thy  neebor  sweet. 
The  bonnie  Lark,  companion  meet! 
Bending  thee  'mang  the  dewy  weet! 

Wi'  spreckl'd  breast. 
When  upward-springing,  blythe,  to  greet 

The  purpling  east. 

Cauld  blew  the  bitter-biting  north 
Upon  thy  early,  humble  birth; 
Yet  cheerfully  thou  glinted  forth 

Amid  the  storm. 
Scarce  rear'd  above  the  parent-earth 

Thy  tender  form. 


3/6  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARiVOLD 

The  flaunting  flow'rs  our  gardens  yield, 

High  shelt'ring  woods  and  wa's  maun  shield,  20 

But  thou,  beneath  the  random  bield 

O'  clod  or  stane, 
Adorns  the  histie  stibble-field, 

Unseen,  alane. 

There,  in  thy  scanty  mantle  clad,  25 

Thy  snawie  bosom  sun-ward  spread, 
Thou  lifts  thy  unassuming  head 

In  humble  guise; 
But  now  the  share  up  tears  thy  bed, 

And  low  thou  lies!  30 

Such  is  the  fate  of  artless  Maid, 
Sweet  flow'ret  of  the  rural  shade ! 
By  love's  simplicity  betray'd. 

And  guileless  trust. 
Till  she,  like  thee,  all  soil'd,  is  laid  35 

Low  i*  the  dust. 

Such  is  the  fate  of  simple  Bard, 

On  life's  rough  ocean  luckless  starr'd! 

Unskilful  he  to  note  the  card 

Of  prudent  lore,  40 

Till  billows  rage,  and  gales  blow  hard. 

And  whelm  him  o'er! 

Such  fate  to  suffering  worth  is  giv'n, 

Who  long  with  wants  and  woes  has  striv'n, 

By  human  pride  or  cunning  driv'n  45 

To  mis'ry's  brink, 
Till  wrench'd  of  ev'ry  stay  but  Heav'n, 

He,  ruin'd,  sink! 


BURNS  377 

Ev'n  thou  who  mourn'st  the  daisy's  fate, 

That  fate  is  thine  —  no  distant  date;  50 

Stern  Ruin's  ploughshare  drives,  elate. 

Full  on  thy  bloom, 
Till  crush' d  beneath  the  furrow's  weight, 

Shall  be  thy  doom  ! 


HARK!    THE   MAVIS 
TUNE :  "  Ca'  the  Yowes  to  the  Knowes  " 

Chorvs :  Ca'  the  yowes  to  the  knowes, 

Ca'  them  where  the  heather  grows, 
Ca'  them  where  the  burnie  rows, 
My  bonnie  Dearie. 

Hark!  the  mavis'  e'ening  sang  5 

Sounding  Clouden's  woods  amang. 
Then  a-faulding  let  us  gang. 
My  bonnie  Dearie. 
Ca'  the  yowes,  &c. 

We'll  gae  down  by  Clouden  side,  10 

Thro'  the  hazels  spreading  wide. 
O'er  the  waves  that  sweetly  glide 
To  the  moon  sae  clearly. 
Ca'  the  yowes,  &c. 

Yonder  Clouden's  silent  towers,  15 

Where  at  moonshine  midnight  hours, 
O'er  the  dewy-bending  flowers. 
Fairies  dance  sae  cheery. 
Ca'  the  yowes,  &c. 


378  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

Ghaist  nor  bogle  shalt  thou  fear;  20 

Thou'rt  to  Love  and  Heaven  sae  dear, 
Nocht  of  ill  may  come  thee  near, 
My  bonnie  Dearie. 
Ca'  the  yowes,  &c. 

Fair  and  lovely  as  thou  art,  25 

Thou  hast  stown  my  very  heart; 
I  can  die  —  but  canna  part, 
My  bonnie  Dearie. 
Ca'  the  yowes,  &c. 


FOR  A'   THAT   AND   A'   THAT 

Is  there,  for  honest  poverty, 

That  hangs  his  head,  and  a'  that? 
The  coward-slave,  we  pass  him  by, 
We  dare  be  poor  for  a'  that ! 
For  a'  that,  an'  a'  that. 

Our  toils  obscure,  an'  a'  that; 
The  rank  is  but  the  guinea's  stamp; 
The  man's  the  gowd  for  a'  that. 

What  tho'  on  hamely  fare  we  dine. 

Wear  hodden-grey,  an'  a'  that; 
Gie  fools  their  silks,  and  knaves  their  wine, 
A  man's  a  man  for  a'  that. 
For  a'  that,  an'  a'  that, 

Their  tinsel  show,  an'  a'  that : 
The  honest  man,  tho'  e'er  sae  poor, 
Is  King  o'  men  for  a'  that. 


BURNS  379 

Ye  see  yon  birkie,  ca'd  a  lord, 

Wha  struts,  and  stares,  an'  a'  that; 
Tho'  hundreds  worship  at  his  word, 

He's  but  a  coof  for  a'  that:  20 

For  a'  that,  an'  a'  that. 

His  riband,  star,  an'  a'  that, 
The  man  of  independent  mind. 
He  looks  and  laughs  at  a'  that. 

A  prince  can  mak  a  belted  knight,  25 

A  marquis,  duke,  an'  a'  that; 
But  an  honest  man's  aboon  his  might, 
Guid  faith,  he  mauna  fa'  that! 
For  a'  that,  an'  a'  that. 

Their  dignities,  an'  a'  that,  30 

The  pith  o'  sense,  and  pride  o'  worth 
Are  higher  rank  than  a'  that. 

Then  let  us  pray  that  come  it  may, 

(As  come  it  will  for  a'  that), 
That  sense  and  worth,  o'er  a'  the  earth,  35 

May  bear  the  gree,  and  a'  that. 
For  a'  that,  an'  a'  that, 

It's  coming  yet  for  a'  that, 
That  man  to  man,  the  warld  o'er, 

Shall  brothers  be  for  a'  that.  40 


WILLIAM   WORDSWORTH 

(1770-1850) 

LINES  WRITTEN   IN   EARLY   SPRING 

I  HEARD  a  thousand  blended  notes, 
While  in  a  grove  I  sat  reclined, 
In  that  sweet  mood  when  pleasant  thoughts 
Bring  sad  thoughts  to  the  mind. 

To  her  fair  works  did  Nature  link 
The  human  soul  that  through  me  ran ; 
And  much  it  grieved  my  heart  to  think 
What  man  has  made  of  man. 

Through  primrose  tufts,  in  that  sweet  bower, 
The  periwinkle  trailed  its  wreaths; 
And  'tis  ray  faith  that  every  flower 
Enjoys  the  air  it  breathes. 

The  birds  around  me  hopped  and  played, 
Their  thoughts  I  cannot  measure :  — 
But  the  least  motion  which  they  made. 
It  seemed  a  thrill  of  pleasure. 

The  budding  twigs  spread  out  their  fan, 
To  catch  the  breezy  air; 
And  I  must  think,  do  all  I  can, 
That  there  was  pleasure  there. 
380 


WORDS  IVOR  TH  38 1 

If  this  belief  from  heaven  be  sent, 
If  such  be  Nature's  holy  plan, 
Have  I  not  reason  to  lament 
What  man  has  made  of  man? 


PRELUDE 

Influence  of  Nature  upon  the  Imagination  in  Early  Youth 

Wisdom  and  Spirit  of  the  universe ! 

Thou  Soul  that  art  the  eternity  of  thought, 

And  givest  to  forms  and  images  a  breath 

And  everlasting  motion,  not  in  vain 

By  day  or  star-light  thus  from  my  first  dawn  5 

Of  childhood  didst  thou  intertwine  for  me 

The  passions  that  build  up  our  human  soul; 

Not  with  the  mean  and  vulgar  works  of  man. 

But  with  high  objects,  with  enduring  things  — 

With  life  and  nature  —  purifying  thus  10 

The  elements  of  feeling  and  of  thought. 

And  sanctifying,  by  such  discipline. 

Both  pain  and  fear,  until  we  recognise 

A  grandeur  in  the  beatings  of  the  heart. 

Nor  was  this  fellowship  vouchsafed  to  me  15 

With  stinted  kindness.     In  November  days. 

When  vapours  rolling  down  the  valley  made 

A  lonely  scene  more  lonesome,  among  woods. 

At  noon,  and  'mid  the  calm  of  summer  nights. 

When,  by  the  margin  of  the  trembling  lake,  20 

Beneath  the  gloomy  hills  homeward  I  went 

In  solitude,  such  intercourse  was  mine : 

Mine  was  it  in  the  fields  both  day  and  night. 

And  by  the  waters,  all  the  summer  long. 


382  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

And  in  the  frosty  season,  when  the  sun  25 

Was  set,  and  visible  for  many  a  mile 
The  cottage  windows  blazed  through  twilight  gloom, 
I  heeded  not  their  summons :  happy  time 
It  was  indeed  for  all  of  us  —  for  me 
It  was  a  time  of  rapture !     Clear  and  loud  30 

The  village  clock  tolled  six,  —  I  wheeled  about. 
Proud  and  exulting  like  an  untired  horse 
That  cares  not  for  his  home.     All  shod  with  steel, 
We  hissed  along  the  polished  ice  in  games 
Confederate,  imitative  of  the  chase  35 

And  woodland  pleasures,  —  the  resounding  horn. 
The  pack  loud  chiming,  and  the  hunted  hare. 
So  through  the  darkness  and  the  cold  we  flew, 
And  not  a  voice  was  idle;  with  the  din 
Smitten,  the  precipices  rang  aloud;  40 

The  leafless  trees  and  every  icy  crag 
Tinkled  like  iron;  while  far  distant  hills 
Into  the  tumult  sent  an  alien  sound 
Of  melancholy  not  unnoticed,  while  the  stars 
Eastward  were  sparkling  clear,  and  in  the  west  45 

The  orange  sky  of  evening  died  away. 
Not  seldom  from  the  uproar  I  retired 
Into  a  silent  bay,  or  sportively 
Glanced  sideway,  leaving  the  tumultuous  throng, 
To  cut  across  the  reflex  of  a  star  50 

That  fled,  and,  flying  still  before  me,  gleamed 
Upon  the  glassy  plain;  and  oftentimes. 
When  we  had  given  our  bodies  to  the  wind, 
And  all  the  shadowy  banks  on  either  side 
Came  sweeping  through  the  darkness,  spinning  still       55 
The  rapid  line  of  motion,  then  at  once 
^ave  I,  reclining  back  upon  my  heels 


WORDSWORTH  383 

Stopped  short;  yet  still  the  solitary  cliffs 
Wheeled  by  me  —  even  as  if  the  earth  had  rolled 
With  visible  motion  her  diurnal  round !  60 

Behind  me  did  they  stretch  in  solemn  train, 
Feebler  and  feebler,  and  I  stood  and  watched 
Till  all  was  tranquil  as  a  dreamless  sleep. 


TO   A   SKYLARK 

Up  with  me!  up  with  me  into  the  clouds! 

For  thy  song.  Lark,  is  strong; 
Up  with  me,  up  with  me  into  the  clouds ! 

Singing,  singing. 
With  clouds  and  sky  about  thee  ringing. 

Lift  me,  guide  me  till  I  find 
That  spot  which  seems  so  to  thy  mind ! 

I  have  walked  through  wildernesses  dreary, 

And  to-day  my  heart  is  weary; 

Had  I  now  the  wings  of  a  Faery, 

Up  to  thee  would  I  fly. 

There  is  madness  about  thee,  and  joy  divine 

In  that  song  of  thine; 

Lift  me,  guide  me  high  and  high 

To  thy  banqueting-place  in  the  sky. 

Joyous  as  morning 
Thou  art  laughing  and  scorning; 
Thou  hast  a  nest  for  thy  love  and  thy  rest, 
And,  though  little  troubled  with  sloth. 
Drunken  Lark!  thou  would'st  be  loath 
To  be  such  a  traveller  as  L 


384  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

Happy,  happy  Liver, 

With  a  soul  as  strong  as  a  mountain  river 

Pouring  out  praise  to  the  almighty  Giver, 

Joy  and  jollity  be  with  us  both  1  25 

Alas !  my  journey,  rugged  and  uneven. 

Through  prickly  moors  or  dusty  ways  must  wind; 

But  hearing  thee,  or  others  of  thy  kind, 

As  full  of  gladness  and  as  free  of  heaven, 

I,  with  my  fate  contented,  will  plod  on,  30 

And  hope  for  higher  raptures,  when  life's  day  is  done. 


THE   SOLITARY   REAPER 

Behold  her,  single  in  the  field, 

Yon  solitary  Highland  Lass ! 

Reaping  and  singing  by  herself; 

Stop  here,  or  gently  pass ! 

Alone  she  cuts  and  binds  the  grain,  5 

And  sings  a  melancholy  strain; 

O  listen !  for  the  Vale  profound 

Is  overflowing  with  the  sound. 

No  Nightingale  did  ever  chaunt 

More  welcome  notes  to  weary  bands  10 

Of  travellers  in  some  shady  haunt 

Among  Arabian  sands : 

A  voice  so  thrilling  ne'er  was  heard 

In  spring-time  from  a  Cuckoo-bird, 

Breaking  the  silence  of  the  seas  15 

Among  the  farthest  Hebrides. 


WORDSWORTH  385 

Will  no  one  tell  me  what  she  sings  ?  — 

Perhaps  the  plaintive  numbers  flow 

For  old,  unhappy,  far-off  things, 

And  battles  long  ago :  20 

Or  is  it  some  more  humble  lay, 

Familiar  matter  of  to-day? 

Some  natural  sorrow,  loss,  or  pain. 

That  has  been,  and  may  be  again? 

Whate'er  the  theme,  the  Maiden  sang  35 

As  if  her  song  could  have  no  ending; 

I  saw  her  singing  at  her  work, 

And  o'er  the  sickle  bending;  — 

I  listened,  motionless  and  still; 

And,  as  I  mounted  up  the  hill,  30 

The  music  in  my  heart  I  bore. 

Long  after  it  was  heard  no  more. 


THE   DAFFODILS 

I  WANDERED  lonely  as  a  cloud 

That  floats  on  high  o'er  vales  and  hills, 

When  all  at  once  I  saw  a  crowd, 

A  host,  of  golden  daffodils; 

Beside  the  lake,  beneath  the  trees. 

Fluttering  and  dancing  in  the  breeze. 

Continuous  as  the  stars  that  shine 
And  twinkle  on  the  milky  way. 
They  stretched  in  never-ending  line 
Along  the  margin  of  a  bay : 
Ten  thousand  saw  I  at  a  glance. 
Tossing  their  heads  in  sprightly  dance. 


386  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

The  waves  beside  them  danced;  but  they 

Out-did  the  sparkling  waves  in  glee: 

A  poet  could  not  but  be  gay,  15 

In  such  a  jocund  company: 

I  gazed  —  and  gazed  —  but  little  thought 

What  wealth  the  show  to  me  had  brought. 

For  oft,  when  on  my  couch  I  lie 

In  vacant  or  in  pensive  mood,  20 

They  flash  upon  that  inward  eye 

Which  is  the  bliss  of  solitude; 

And  then  my  heart  with  pleasure  fills, 

And  dances  with  the  daffodils. 


MILTON 


Milton!  thou  should'st  be  living  at  this  hour: 

England  hath  need  of  thee :  she  is  a  fen 

Of  stagnant  waters :  altar,  sword,  and  pen, 

Fireside,  the  heroic  wealth  of  hall  and  bower, 

Have  forfeited  their  ancient  English  dower 

Of  inward  happiness.     We  are  selfish  men; 

Oh!  raise  us  up,  return  to  us  again; 

And  give  us  manners,  virtue,  freedom,  power. 

Thy  soul  was  like  a  Star,  and  dwelt  apart : 

Thou  hadst  a  voice  whose  sound  was  like  the  sea : 

Pure  as  the  naked  heavens,  majestic,  free. 

So  didst  thou  travel  on  life's  common  way, 

In  cheerful  godliness;  and  yet  thy  heart 

The  lowliest  duties  on  herself  did  lay. 


WORDSWORTH  387 

ON    THE    DEPARTURE    OF    SIR   WALTER    SCOTT 
FROM   ABBOTSFORD,   FOR   NAPLES 

A  TROUBLE,  not  of  clouds,  or  weeping  rain, 

Nor  of  the  setting  sun's  pathetic  light 

Engendered,  hangs  o'er  Eildon's  triple  height: 

Spirits  of  Power,  assembled  there,  complain 

For  kindred  Power  departing  from  their  sight;  5 

While  Tweed,  best  pleased  in  chanting  a  blithe  strain. 

Saddens  his  voice  again,  and  yet  again. 

Lift  up  your  hearts,  ye  Mourners !  for  the  might 

Of  the  whole  world's  good  wishes  with  him  goes; 

Blessings  and  prayers  in  nobler  retinue  10 

Than  sceptred  king  or  laurelled  conqueror  knows, 

Follow  this  wondrous  Potentate.     Be  true. 

Ye  winds  of  ocean,  and  the  midland  sea. 

Wafting  your  Charge  to  soft  Parthenope ! 


ODE   ON   INTLMATIONS   OF   LMMORTALITY   FROM 
RECOLLECTIONS   OF   EARLY   CHILDHOOD 

The  Child  is  father  of  the  Man; 
And  I  could  wish  my  days  to  be 
Bound  each  to  each  by  natural  piety. 


There  was  a  time  when  meadow,  grove,  and  stream, 
The  earth,  and  every  common  sight. 
To  me  did  seem 
Apparelled  in  celestial  light, 
The  glory  and  the  freshness  of  a  dream.  5 


388  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

It  is  not  now  as  it  hath  been  of  yore;  — 
Turn  wheresoe'er  I  may, 
By  night  or  day, 
The  things  which  I  have  seen  I  now  can  see  no  more. 


The  Rainbow  comes  and  goes  lo 

And  lovely  is  the  Rose; 
The  Moon  doth  with  delight 
Look  round  her  when  the  heavens  are  bare; 
Waters  on  a  starry  night 

Are  beautiful  and  fair;  15 

The  sunshine  is  a  glorious  birth; 
But  yet  I  know,  where'er  I  go, 
That  there  hath  past  away  a  glory  from  the  earth. 

in 

Now,  while  the  birds  thus  sing  a  joyous  song, 

And  while  the  young  lambs  bound  20 

As  to  the  tabor's  sound, 
To  me  alone  there  came  a  thought  of  grief: 
A  timely  utterance  gave  that  thought  relief. 

And  I  again  am  strong : 
The  cataracts  blow  their  trumpets  from  the  steep;  25 

No  more  shall  grief  of  mine  the  season  wrong; 
I  hear  the  Echoes  through  the  mountains  throng, 
The  Winds  come  to  me  from  the  fields  of  sleep. 
And  all  the  earth  is  gay; 

Land  and  Sea  30 

Give  themselves  up  to  jollity. 

And  with  the  heart  of  May 
Doth  every  Beast  keep  holiday;  — 


WORDSWORTH  389 

Thou  Child  of  Joy, 
Shout  round  me,  let  me  hear  thy  shouts,  thou  happy       35 
Shepherd-boy ! 

IV 

Ye  blessed  Creatures,  I  have  heard  the  call 

Ye  to  each  other  make;  I  see 
The  heavens  laugh  with  you  in  your  jubilee; 

My  heart  is  at  your  festival,  40 

My  head  hath  its  coronal, 
The  fulness  of  your  bliss,  I  feel  —  I  feel  it  all. 
Oh  evil  day !  if  I  were  sullen 
While  Earth  herself  is  adorning, 

This  sweet  May-morning,  45 

And  the  Children  are  culling 

On  every  side. 
In  a  thousand  valleys  far  and  wide. 
Fresh  flowers;  while  the  sun  shines  warm. 
And  the  Babe  leaps  up  on  his  Mother's  arm:  —  50 

I  hear,  I  hear,  with  joy  I  hear! 
—  But  there's  a  Tree,  of  many,  one, 
A  single  Field  which  I  have  looked  upon. 
Both  of  them  speak  of  something  that  is  gone : 

The  Pansy  at  my  feet  55 

Doth  the  same  tale  repeat: 
Whither  is  fled  the  visionary  gleam? 
Where  is  it  now,  the  glory  and  the  dream? 


Our  birth  is  but  a  sleep  and  a  forgetting : 
The  Soul  that  rises  with  us,  our  life's  Star,  60 

Hath  had  elsewhere  its  setting, 
And  Cometh  from  afar: 


39©  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

Not  in  entire  forgetfulness, 

And  not  in  utter  nakedness, 
But  trailing  clouds  of  glory  do  we  come  65 

From  God,  who  is  our  home : 
Heaven  lies  about  us  in  our  infancy! 
Shades  of  the  prison-house  begin  to  close 

Upon  the  growing  Boy, 
But  He  beholds  the  light,  and  whence  it  flows  70 

He  sees  it  in  his  joy; 
The  Youth,  who  daily  farther  from  the  east 

Must  travel,  still  is  Nature's  Priest, 

And  by  the  vision  splendid 

Is  on  his  way  attended;  75 

At  length  the  Man  perceives  it  die  away, 
And  fade  into  the  light  of  common  day. 

VI 

Earth  fills  her  lap  with  pleasures  of  her  own; 

Yearnings  she  hath  in  her  own  natural  kind. 

And  even  with  something  of  a  Mother's  mind,  80 

And  no  unworthy  aim. 
The  homely  Nurse  doth  all  she  can 

To  make  her  Foster-child,  her  Inmate  Man, 
Forget  the  glories  he  hath  known. 

And  that  imperial  palace  whence  he  came.  85 

vn 

Behold  the  Child  among  his  new-bom  blisses, 

A  six  years'  Darling  of  a  pigmy  size ! 
See,  where  'mid  work  of  his  own  hand  he  lies. 
Fretted  by  sallies  of  his  mother's  kisses. 
With  light  upon  him  from  his  father's  eyes!  90 


WORDSWORTH  39 1 

See,  at  his  feet,  some  little  plan  or  chart, 
Some  fragment  from  his  dream  of  human  life, 
Shaped  by  himself  with  newly-learned  art; 

A  wedding  or  a  festival, 

A  mourning  or  a  funeral;  95 

And  this  hath  now  his  heart, 

And  unto  this  he  frames  his  song: 
Then  will  he  fit  his  tongue 
To  dialogues  of  business,  love,  or  strife : 

But  it  will  not  be  long  loo 

Ere  this  be  thrown  aside. 

And  with  new  joy  and  pride 
The  little  Actor  cons  another  part; 
Filling  from  time  to  time  his  'humorous  stage' 
With  all  the  Persons,  down  to  palsied  Age,  105 

That  Life  brings  with  her  in  her  equipage; 

As  if  his  whole  vocation 

Were  endless  imitation. 

VIII 

Thou,  whose  exterior  semblance  doth  belie 

Thy  Soul's  immensity;  no 

Thou  best  Philosopher,  who  yet  dost  keep 
Thy  heritage,  thou  Eye  among  the  blind. 
That,  deaf  and  silent,  read'st  the  eternal  deep, 
Haunted  for  ever  by  the  eternal  mind,  — 

Mighty  Prophet !     Seer  blest!  115 

On  whom  those  truths  do  rest, 
Which  we  are  toiling  all  our  lives  to  find, 
In  darkness  lost,  the  darkness  of  the  grave; 
Thou,  over  whom  thy  Immortality 
Broods  like  the  Day,  a  Master  o'er  a  Slave,  120 

A  Presence  which  is  not  to  be  put  by; 


392  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

Thou  little  Child,  yet  glorious  in  the  might 

Of  heaven-born  freedom  on  thy  being's  height, 

Why  with  such  earnest  pains  dost  thou  provoke 

The  years  to  bring  the  inevitable  yoke,  125 

Thus  blindly  with  thy  blessedness  at  strife? 

Full  soon  thy  Soul  shall  have  her  earthly  freight, 

And  custom  lie  upon  thee  with  a  weight. 

Heavy  as  frost,  and  deep  almost  as  life ! 

IX 

O  joy!  that  in  our  embers  130 

Is  something  that  doth  live. 
That  nature  yet  remembers 
What  was  so  fugitive ! 
The  thought  of  our  past  years  in  me  doth  breed 
Perpetual  benediction :  not  in  deed  135 

For  that  which  is  most  worthy  to  be  blest; 
Delight  and  liberty,  the  simple  creed 
Of  Childhood,  whether  busy  or  at  rest. 
With  new-fledged  hope  still  fluttering  in  his  breast:  — 

Not  for  these  I  raise  140 

The  song  of  thanks  and  praise; 
But  for  those  obstinate  questionings 
Of  sense  and  outward  things. 
Fallings  from  us,  vanishings; 
Blank  misgivings  of  a  Creature  145 

Moving  about  in  worlds  not  realised. 
High  instincts  before  which  our  mortal  Nature 
Did  tremble  like  a  guilty  thing  surprised: 
But  for  those  first  affections. 
Those  shadowy  recollections,  150 

Which,  be  they  what  they  may, 
Are  yet  the  fountain  light  of  all  our  day, 


WORDSWORTH  393 

Are  yet  a  master  light  of  all  our  seeing; 

Uphold  us,  cherish,  and  have  power  to  make 
Our  noisy  years  seem  moments  in  the  being  155 

Of  the  eternal  Silence :  truths  that  wake, 

To  perish  never; 
Which  neither  listlessness,  nor  mad  endeavour, 

Nor  Man  nor  Boy, 
Nor  all  that  is  at  enmity  with  joy,  160 

Can  utterly  abolish  or  destroy ! 

Hence  in  a  season  of  calm  weather 

Though  inland  far  we  be. 
Our  Souls  have  sight  of  that  immortal  sea 

Which  brought  us  hither,  165 

Can  in  a  moment  travel  thither, 
And  see  the  Children  sport  upon  the  shore, 
And  hear  the  mighty  waters  rolling  evermore. 


Then  sing,  ye  Birds,  sing,  sing  a  joyous  song! 

And  let  the  young  Lambs  bound  170 

As  to  the  tabor's  sound! 

We  in  thought  will  join  your  throng, 

Ye  that  pipe  and  ye  that  play, 

Ye  that  through  your  hearts  to-day 

Feel  the  gladness  of  the  May !  175 

What  though  the  radiance  which  was  once  so  bright 

Be  now  for  ever  taken  from  my  sight, 

Though  nothing  can  bring  back  the  hour 

Of  splendour  in  the  grass,  of  glory  in  the  flower; 

We  will  grieve  not,  rather  find  180 

Strength  in  what  remains  behind; 

In  the  primal  sympathy 

Which  having  been  must  ever  be; 


394  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

In  the  soothing  thoughts  that  spring 
Out  of  human  suffering;  185 

In  the  faith  that  looks  through  death, 
In  years  that  bring  the  philosophic  mind. 


XI 

And  O,  ye  Fountains,  Meadows,  Hills,  and  Groves, 

Forebode  not  any  severing  of  our  loves ! 

Yet  in  my  heart  of  hearts  I  feel  your  might;  190 

I  only  have  relinquished  one  delight 

To  live  beneath  your  more  habitual  sway. 

I  love  the  Brooks,  which  down  their  channels  fret, 

Even  more  than  when  I  tripped  lightly  as  they: 

The  innocent  brightness  of  a  new-born  Day  195 

Is  lovely  yet; 
The  Clouds  that  gather  round  the  setting  sun 
Do  take  a  sober  colouring  from  an  eye 
That  hath  kept  watch  o'er  man's  mortality; 
Another  race  hath  been,  and  other  palms  are  won.        200 
Thanks  to  the  human  heart  by  which  we  live, 
Thanks  to  its  tenderness,  its  joys,  and  fears. 
To  me  the  meanest  flower  that  blows  can  give 
Thoughts  that  do  often  lie  too  deep  for  tears. 


TO   THE   QUEEN 

Deign,  Sovereign  Mistress!  to  accept  a  lay. 
No  I>aureate  offering  of  elaborate  art; 

But  salutation,  taking  its  glad  way 
From  deep  recesses  of  a  loyal  heart. 


WORDSWORTH  395 

Queen,  wife,  and  mother !  may  all-judging  Heaven      5 
Shower  with  a  bounteous  hand  on  thee  and  thine 

Felicity,  that  only  can  be  given 

On  earth  to  goodness  blessed  by  grace  divine. 

Lady !  devoutly  honored  and  beloved 

Through  every  realm  confided  to  thy  sway;  10 

May'st  thou  pursue  thy  course  by  God  approved, 

And  he  will  teach  thy  people  to  obey. 

As  thou  art  wont  thy  sovereignty  adorn 

With  woman's  gentleness,  yet  firm  and  staid; 

So  shall  that  earthly  crown  thy  brows  have  worn  15 

Be  changed  to  one  whose  glory  cannot  fade. 

And  now,  by  duty  urged,  I  lay  this  book 

Before  thy  Majesty  in  humble  trust. 
That  on  its  simplest  pages  thou  wilt  look 

With  a  benign  indulgence,  more  than  just.  20 

Nor  wilt  thou  blame  an  aged  poet's  prayer. 
That,  issuing  hence,  may  steal  into  thy  mind, 

Some  solace  under  weight  of  royal  care. 
Or  grief,  the  inheritance  of  human  kind. 

For  know  we  not  that  from  celestial  spheres  45 

When  time  was  young  an  inspiration  came, 

(O  were  it  mine !)  to  hallow  saddest  tears 
And  help  life  onward  in  its  noblest  aim? 

W.  W. 

Rydal  Mount,  9th  January,  1846. 


SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE 

(I77a-x834) 

TIME,   REAL   AND   IMAGINARY 

An  Allegory 

On  the  wide  level  of  a  mountain's  head, 
(I  knew  not  where,  but  'twas  some  faery  place) 
Their  pinions,  ostrich-like,  for  sails  outspread. 
Two  lovely  children  run  an  endless  race, 

A  sister  and  a  brother ! 

That  far  outstripped  the  other; 
Yet  ever  runs  she  with  reverted  face, 
And  looks  and  listens  for  the  boy  behind: 

For  he,  alas !  is  blind ! 
O'er  rough  and  smooth  with  even  step  he  passed, 
And  knows  not  whether  he  be  first  or  last. 


FROST  AT   MIDNIGHT 

The  Frost  performs  its  secret  ministry, 
Unhelped  by  any  wind.     The  owlet's  cry 
Came  loud  —  and  hark,  again !  loud  as  before. 
The  inmates  of  my  cottage,  all  at  rest. 
Have  left  me  to  that  solitude,  which  suits 
Abstruser  musings:  save  that  at  my  side 
My  cradled  infant  slumbers  peacefully. 
396 


COLERIDGE  397 

'Tis  calm  indeed !  so  calm,  that  it  disturbs 

'And  vexes  meditation  with  its  strange 

And  extreme  silentness.     Sea,  hill,  and  wood,  10 

This  populous  village !     Sea,  and  hill,  and  wood, 

With  all  the  numberless  goings  on  of  life. 

Inaudible  as  dreams!  the  thin  blue  flame 

Lies  on  my  low  burnt  fire,  and  quivers  not; 

Only  that  film,  which  fluttered  on  the  grate,  15 

Still  flutters  there,  the  sole  unquiet  thing. 

Methinks,  its  motion  in  this  hush  of  nature 

Gives  it  dim  sympathies  with  me  who  live. 

Making  it  a  companionable  form. 

Whose  puny  flaps  and  freaks,  the  idling  spirit  20 

By  its  own  mood  interprets,  every  where 

Echo  or  mirror  seeking  of  itself. 

And  makes  a  toy  of  thought. 

But  O !  how  oft, 
How  oft,  at  school,  with  most  believing  mind,  25 

Presageful,  have  I  gazed  upon  the  bars. 
To  watch  that  fluttering  stranger !  and  as  oft 
With  unclosed  lids,  already  had  I  dreamt 
Of  my  sweet  birth-place,  and  the  old  church-tower, 
Whose  bells,  the  poor  man's  only  music,  rang  30 

From  morn  to  evening,  all  the  hot  fair-day. 
So  sweetly,  that  they  stirred  and  haunted  me 
With  a  wild  pleasure,  falling  on  mine  ear 
Most  like  articulate  sounds  of  things  to  come! 
So  gazed  I,  till  the  soothing  things  I  dreamt,  35 

Lulled  me  to  sleep,  and  sleep  prolonged  my  dreams ! 
And  so  I  brooded  all  the  following  morn, 
Awed  by  the  stern  preceptor's  face,  mine  eye 
Fixed  with  mock  study  on  my  swimming  book: 
Save  if  the  door  half  opened,  and  I  snatched  40 


398  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

A  hasty  glance,  and  still  my  heart  leaped  up, 
For  still  I  hoped  to  see  the  stranger's  face, 
Townsman,  or  aunt,  or  sister  more  beloved. 
My  playmate  when  we  both  were  clothed  alike! 

Dear  Babe,  that  sleepest  cradled  by  my  side,  45 

Whose  gentle  breathings,  heard  in  this  deep  calm, 
Fill  up  the  interspersed  vacancies 
And  momentary  pauses  of  the  thought ! 
My  babe  so  beautiful !  it  thrills  my  heart 
With  tender  gladness,  thus  to  look  at  thee,  50 

And  think  that  thou  shalt  learn  far  other  lore 
And  in  far  other  scenes !     For  I  was  reared 
In  the  great  city,  pent  'mid  cloisters  dim. 
And  saw  nought  lovely  but  the  sky  and  stars. 
But  thou,  my  babe !  shalt  wander  like  a  breeze  55 

By  lakes  and  sandy  shores,  beneath  the  crags 
Of  ancient  mountain,  and  beneath  the  clouds 
Which  image  in  their  bulk  both  lakes  and  shores 
And  mountain  crags :  so  shalt  thou  see  and  hear 
The  lovely  shapes  and  sounds  intelligible  60 

Of  that  eternal  language,  which  thy  God 
Utters,  who  from  eternity  doth  teach 
Himself  in  all,  and  all  things  in  Himself. 
Great  universal  Teacher!     He  shall  mould 
Thy  spirit,  and  by  giving  make  it  ask.  65 

Therefore  all  seasons  shall  be  sweet  to  thee, 
Whether  the  summer  clothe  the  general  earth 
With  greenness,  or  the  redbreast  sit  and  sing 
Betwixt  the  tufts  of  snow  on  the  bare  branch 
Of  mossy  apple-tree,  while  the  nigh  thatch  70 

Smokes  in  the  sun- thaw;  whether  the  eave-drops  fall, 


COLERIDGE  399 

Heard  only  in  the  trances  of  the  blast, 

Or  if  the  secret  ministry  of  frost 

Shall  hang  them  up  in  silent  icicles, 

Quietly  shining  to  the  quiet  Moon.  75 


MORNING   HYMN   TO   MONT   BLANC 

Hast  thou  a  charm  to  stay  the  morning-star 

In  his  steep  course  ?     So  long  he  seems  to  pause 

On  thy  bald,  awful  head,  O  sovran  Blanc ! 

The  Arvd  and  the  Arveiron  at  thy  base 

Rave  ceaselessly;  but  thou,  most  awful  form!  5 

Risest  from  forth  thy  silent  sea  of  pines, 

How  silently !     Around  thee  and  above 

Deep  is  the  air,  and  dark,  substantial,  black, 

An  ebon  mass :  methinks  thou  piercest  it, 

As  with  a  wedge  !     But  when  I  look  again,  10 

It  is  thine  own  calm  home,  thy  crystal  shrine, 

Thy  habitation  from  eternity ! 

0  dread  and  silent  mount !     I  gazed  upon  thee. 
Till  thou,  still  present  to  the  bodily  sense. 

Didst  vanish  from  my  thought :  entranced  in  prayer,    15 

1  worshipped  the  Invisible  alone. 

Yet,  like  some  sweet  beguiling  melody. 

So  sweet,  we  know  not  we  are  listening  to  it. 

Thou,  the  meanwhile,  wast  blending  with  my  thought. 

Yea,  with  my  life,  and  life's  own  secret  joy;  20 

Till  the  dilating  soul,  enrapt,  transfused. 

Into  the  mighty  vision  passing  —  there. 

As  in  her  natural  form,  swelled  vast  to  heaven. 

Awake,  my  soul !  not  only  passive  praise 


400  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

Thou  owest !  not  alone  these  swelling  tears,  25 

Mute  thanks,  and  secret  ecstasy !     Awake, 
Voice  of  sweet  song !     Awake,  my  heart,  awake ! 
Green  vales  and  icy  cliffs,  all  join  my  hymn. 

Thou  first  and  chief,  sole  Sovran  of  the  Vale ! 

Oh,  struggling  with  the  darkness  all  the  night,  30 

And  visited  all  night  by  troops  of  stars. 

Or  when  they  climb  the  sky  or  when  they  sink : 

Companion  of  the  morning-star  at  dawn, 

Thyself  earth's  rosy  star,  and  of  the  dawn. 

Co-herald !  wake,  oh  wake,  and  utter  praise !  35 

Who  sank  thy  sunless  pillars  deep  in  earth? 

Who  filled  thy  countenance  with  rosy  light? 

Who  made  thee  parent  of  perpetual  streams? 

And  you,  ye  five  wild  torrents  fiercely  glad ! 

Who  called  you  forth  from  night  and  utter  death,       40 

From  dark  and  icy  caverns  called  you  forth, 

Down  those  precipitous,  black,  jagged  rocks. 

Forever  shattered  and  the  same  forever? 

Who  gave  you  your  invulnerable  life, 

Your  strength,  your  speed,  your  fury,  and  your  joy,   45 

Unceasing  thunder  and  eternal  foam  ? 

And  who  commanded  —  and  the  silence  came  — 

"Here  let  the  billows  stiffen,  and  have  rest?" 

Ye  ice-falls!  ye  that  form  the  mountain's  brow 
Adown  enormous  ravines  slope  amain  —  50 

Torrents,  methinks,  that  heard  a  mighty  voice. 
And  stopped  at  once  amid  their  maddest  plunge ! 
Motionless  torrents !  silent  cataracts ! 
Who  made  you  glorious  as  the  gates  of  heaven 


COLERIDGE  4OI 

Beneath  the  keen  full  moon?     Who  bade  the  sun  55 

Clothe  you  with  rainbows?     Who  with  living  flowers 
Of  loveliest  blue  spread  garlands  at  your  feet? 
"God!  "  let  the  torrents,  like  a  shout  of  nations, 
Answer;  and  let  the  ice-plains  echo,  "God!" 
"  God  !  "  sing,  ye  meadow-streams,  with  gladsome  voice !  60 
Ye  pine-groves,  with  your  soft  and  soul-like  sounds! 
And  they,  too,  have  a  voice,  yon  piles  of  snow. 
And  in  their  perilous  fall  shall  thunder,  "God!" 

Ye  living  flowers  that  skirt  the  eternal  frost! 

Ye  wild  goats  sporting  round  the  eagle's  nest!  65 

Ye  eagles,  playmates  of  the  mountain-storm! 

Ye  lightnings,  the  dread  arrows  of  the  clouds! 

Ye  signs  and  wonders  of  the  elements ! 

Utter  forth  "God!  "  and  fill  the  hills  with  praise! 

Once  more,  hoar  mount !  with  thy  sky-pointing  peaks,      70 

Oft  from  whose  feet  the  avalanche,  unheard. 

Shoots  downward,  glittering  through  the  pure  serene, 

Into  the  depth  of  clouds  that  veil  thy  breast  — 

Thou  too,  again,  stupendous  mountain,  thou 

That,  as  I  raise  my  head,  a  while  bowed  low  75 

In  adoration,  upward  from  thy  base. 

Slow  travelling,  with  dim  eyes  suffused  with  tears, 

Solemnly  seemest,  like  a  vapory  cloud. 

To  rise  before  me  —  rise,  O,  ever  rise; 

Rise  like  a  cloud  of  incense  from  the  earth.  80 

Thou  kingly  spirit  throned  among  the  hills. 

Thou  dread  ambassador  from  earth  to  heaven. 

Great  hierarch,  tell  thou  the  silent  sky. 

And  tell  the  stars,  and  tell  yon  rising  sun, 

parth,  with  her  thousand  voices,  praises  God !  85 


402  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

SHAKESPEARE 

The  True  Critic 

Assuredly  that  criticism  of  Shakespeare  will  alone  be 
genial  which  is  reverential.  The  Englishman  who  with- 
out reverence  —  a  proud  and  affectionate  reverence  — 
can  utter  the  name  of  William  Shakespeare,  stands  dis- 
qualified for  the  office  of  critic.  He  wants  one  at  least  5 
of  the  very  senses,  the  language  of  which  he  is  to  em- 
ploy, and  will  discourse  at  best  but  as  a  blind  man,  while 
the  whole  harmonious  creation  of  light  and  shade,  with 
all  its  subtle  interchange  of  deepening  and  dissolving 
colors,  rises  in  silence  to  the  silent  yfa/ of  the  uprising  10 
Apollo.  However  inferior  in  ability  I  may  be  to  some 
who  have  followed  me,  I  own  I  am  proud  that  I  was  the 
first  in  time  who  publicly  demonstrated  to  the  full  extent 
of  the  position,  that  the  supposed  irregularity  and  ex- 
travagances of  Shakespeare  were  the  mere  dreams  of  a  15 
pedantry  that  arraigned  the  eagle  because  it  had  not  the 
dimensions  of  the  swan.  In  all  the  successive  courses 
of  lectures  delivered  by  me,  since  my  first  attempt  at  the 
Royal  Institution,  it  has  been,  and  it  still  remains,  my 
object  to  prove  that  in  all  points,  from  the  most  impor-  20 
tant  to  the  most  minute,  the  judgment  of  Shakespeare  is 
commensurate  with  his  genius  —  nay,  that  his  genius 
reveals  itself  in  his  judgment,  as  in  its  most  exalted 
form.  And  the  more  gladly  do  I  recur  to  this  subject 
from  the  clear  conviction,  that  to  judge  aright,  and  with  25 
distinct  consciousness  of  the  grounds  of  our  judgment, 
concerning  the  works  of  Shakespeare,  implies  the  power 
and  the  means  of  judging  rightly  of  all  other  works  of 
intellect,  those  of  abstract  science  alone  excepted. 


COLERIDGE  403 

It  is  a  painful  truth   that  not  only  individuals,  but  30 
even  whole  nations,  are  ofttimes  so  enslaved  to  the  habits 
of  their  education  and  immediate  circumstances,  as  not 
to  judge  disinterestedly,  even  on  those  subjects,  the  very 
pleasure  arising  from  which  consists  in  its  disinterested- 
ness, namely,  on  subjects  of  taste  and  polite  literature.   35 
Instead  of  deciding  concerning  their  own  modes  and  cus- 
toms by  any  rule  of  reason,  nothing  appears  rational,  be- 
coming, or  beautiful  to  them,  but  what  coincides  with 
the  peculiarities  of  their  education.     In  this  narrow 
circle,  individuals  may  attain  to  exquisite  discrimina-  40 
tion,  as  the  French  critics  have  done  in  their  own  litera- 
ture; but  a  true  critic  can  no  more  be  such  without 
placing  himself  on  some  central  point,  from  which  he 
may  command  the  whole,  that  is,  some  general  rule, 
which,  founded  in  reason,  or  the  faculties  common  to  45 
all  men,  must  therefore  apply  to  each,  —  than  an  astrono- 
mer can  explain  the  movements  of   the  solar  system 
without  taking  his  stand  in  the  sun. 

And  let  me  remark  that  this  will  not  tend  to  produce 
despotism,  but,  on  the  contrary,  true  tolerance  in  the  50 
critic.     He  will,  indeed,  require,  as  the  spirit  and  sub- 
stance of  a  work,  something  true. in  human  nature  itself, 
and  independent  of  all  circumstances;  but  in  the  mode 
of  applying  it,  he  will  estimate  genius  and  judgment 
according  to  the  felicity  with  which  the  imperishable  soul   55 
of  intellect  shall  have  adapted   itself  to  the  age,   the 
place,  and  the  existing  manners.     The  error  he  will  ex- 
pose, lies  in  reversing  this,   and  holding  up  the  mere 
circumstances  as  perpetual,  to  the  utter  neglect  of  the 
power  which  can  alone  animate  them.     For  art  cannot  60 
exist  without,  or  apart  from  nature;  and  what  has  man 
of  his  own  to  give  to  his  fellow-man  but  his  own  thoughts 


404  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

and  feelings,  and  his  observations,  so  far  as  they  are 
modified  by  his  own  thoughts  or  feelings? 

Let  me,   then,  once  more  submit  this  question  to  65 
minds  emancipated  alike  from  national,  or  party,  or 
sectarian   prejudices:    Are    the    plays   of    Shakespeare 
works  of  rude  uncultivated  genius,  in  which  the  splen- 
dour of  the  parts  compensates,  if  aught  can  compensate, 
for  the  barbarous  shapelessness  and  irregularity  of  the  70 
whole?    Or  is  the  form  equally  admirable  with  the  mat- 
ter, and  the  judgment  of  the  great  poet  not  less  deserv- 
ing our  wonder  than  his  genius?     Or,  again,  to  repeat 
the  question  in  other  words:    Is  Shakespeare  a  great 
dramatic  poet  on  account  only  of  those  beauties  and  75 
excellencies  which  he  possesses  in  common  with  the 
ancients,  but  with  diminished  claims  to  our  love  and 
honour  to  the  full  extent  of  his  differences  from  them? 
Or  are  these  very  differences  additional  proofs  of  poetic 
wisdom,  at  once  results  and  symbols  of  living  power  as  80 
contrasted  with  lifeless  mechanism  —  of  free  and  rival 
originality  —  as  contra-distinguished  from  servile  imi- 
tation, or,  more  accurately,  a  blind  copying  of  effects, 
instead  of  a  true  imitation  of  the  essential  principles? 
Imagine  not  that  I  am  about  to  oppose  genius  to  rules.  85 
No!   the  comparative  value  of  these  rules  is  the  very 
cause  to  be  tried. 

The  spirit  of  poetry,  like  all  other  living  powers,  must 
of  necessity  circumscribe  itself  by  rules,  were  it  only  to 
unite  power  with  beauty.  It  must  embody  in  order  to  90 
reveal  itself;  but  a  living  body  is  of  necessity  an  organ- 
ized one;  and  what  is  organization  but  the  connection 
of  parts  in  and  for  a  whole,  so  that  each  part  is  at  once 
end  and  means?  —  This  is  no  discovery  of  criticism;  it 
is  a  necessity  of  the  human  mind;  and  all  nations  have  95 


COLERIDGE  405 

felt  and  obeyed  it,  in  the  invention  of  metre,  and  meas- 
ured sounds,  as  a  vehicle  and  itivolucrum  of  poetry  — 
itself  a  fellow-growth  from  the  same  life  —  even  as  the 
bark  is  to  the  tree ! 

No  work  of  true  genius  dares  want  its  appropriate  100 
form,  neither  indeed  is  there  any  danger  of  this.     As  it 
must  not,  so  genius  cannot,  be  lawless;   for  it  is  even 
this  that  constitutes  it  genius  —  the   power  of  acting 
creatively  under  laws  of  its  own  origination.     How  then 
comes  it  that  not  only  single  Zoili,  but  whole  nations  105 
have  combined  in  unhesitating  condemnation  of  our 
great  dramatist,  as  a  sort  of  African  nature,  rich  in  beau- 
tiful monsters  —  as  a  wild  heath  where  islands  of  fertility 
look  the  greener  from  the  surrounding  waste,  where  the 
loveliest  plants  now  shine  out  among  unsightly  weeds,  no 
and  now  are  choked  by  their  parasitic  growth,  so  inter- 
twined that  we  cannot  disentangle  the  weed  without 
snapping  the  flower?     In  this  statement  I  have  had  no 
reference  to  the  vulgar  abuse  of  Voltaire,  save  as  far  as 
his  charges  are  coincident  with  the  decisions  of  Shake- 115 
speare's  own  commentators  and  (so  they  would  tell  you) 
almost  idolatrous  admirers.     The  true  ground  of  the 
mistake  lies  in  confounding  mechanical  regularity  with 
organic    form.   .   .  .      Nature,   the   primegenial   artist, 
inexhaustible  in  diverse  powers,  is  equally  inexhausti- 120 
ble  in  forms;  —  each  exterior  is  the  physiognomy  of 
the  being  within,  —  its  true  image  reflected  and  thrown 
out   from    the    concave    mirror ;  —  and    even   such    is 
the  appropriate  excellence  of  her  chosen  poet,  of  our 
own    Shakespeare,  —  himself    a    nature    humanized,    a  125 
genial  understanding  devoting  self-consciously  a  power 
and   an   implicit  wisdom   deeper  even  than  our  con- 
sciousness. 


SIR   WALTER   SCOTT 

(1771-1833) 

LAY   OF   THE   LAST  MINSTREL 
Song  of  the  Bard 


Breathes  there  the  man,  with  soul  so  dead, 
Who  never  to  himself  hath  said, 

This  is  my  own,  my  native  land ! 
Whose  heart  hath  ne'er  within  him  burned, 
As  home  his  footsteps  he  hath  turned,  5 

From  wandering  on  a  foreign  strand ! 
If  such  there  breathe,  go,  mark  him  well; 
For  him  no  Minstrel  raptures  swell ; 
High  though  his  titles,  proud  his  name. 
Boundless  his  wealth  as  wish  can  claim;  10 

Despite  those  titles,  power,  and  pelf. 
The  wretch,  concentred  all  in  self. 
Living,  shall  forfeit  fair  renown, 
And,  doubly  dying,  shall  go  down 
To  the  vile  dust,  from  whence  he  sprung,  15 

Unwept,  unhonored,  and  unsung. 


O  Caledonia!  stern  and  wild, 
Meet  nurse  for  a  poetic  child! 
406 


SCOTT  407 

Land  of  brown  heath  and  shaggy  wood, 

Land  of  the  mountain  and  the  flood,  20 

Land  of  my  sires !  what  mortal  hand 

Can  e'er  untie  the  filial  band, 

That  knits  me  to  thy  rugged  strand ! 

Still  as  I  view  each  well-known  scene, 

Think  what  is  now,  and  what  hath  been,  25 

Seems  as,  to  me,  of  all  bereft, 

Sole  friends  thy  woods  and  streams  were  left; 

And  thus  I  love  them  better  still. 

Even  in  extremity  of  ill. 

By  Yarrow's  streams  still  let  me  stray,  30 

Though  none  should  guide  my  feeble  way; 

Still  feel  the  breeze  down  Ettrick  break, 

Although  it  chill  my  withered  cheek; 

Still  lay  my  head  by  Teviot  Stone, 

Though  there,  forgotten  and  alone,  33 

The  Bard  may  draw  his  parting  groan. 


THE   LORD   OF  THE   ISLES 
Lake  Coriskin 

A  WHILE  their  route  they  silent  made, 
As  men  who  stalk  for  mountain-deer, 

Till  the  good  Bruce  to  Ronald  said, — 
'Saint  Mary!  what  a  scene  is  here! 

I've  traversed  many  a  mountain-strand, 

Abroad  and  in  my  native  land, 

And  it  has  been  my  lot  to  tread 

Where  safety  more  than  pleasure  led; 

Thus,  many  a  waste  I've  wandered  o'er, 


408  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

Clombe  many  a  crag,  cross'd  many  a  moor,  lo 

But,  by  my  halidome, 
A  scene  so  rude,  so  wild  as  this, 
Yet  so  sublime  in  barrenness. 
Ne'er  did  my  wandering  footsteps  press. 

Where'er  I  happ'd  to  roam.'  15 

No  marvel  thus  the  Monarch  spake; 

For  rarely  human  eye  has  known 
A  scene  so  stern  as  that  dread  lake, 

With  its  dark  ledge  of  barren  stone. 
Seems  that  primeval  earthquake's  sway  20 

Hath  rent  a  strange  and  shatter'd  way 

Through  the  rude  bosom  of  the  hill, 
And  that  each  naked  precipice, 
Sable  ravine,  and  dark  abyss. 

Tells  of  the  outrage  still.  25 

The  wildest  glen,  but  this,  can  show 
Some  touch  of  Nature's  genial  glow; 
On  high  Benmore  green  mosses  grow. 
And  heath-bells  bud  in  deep  Glencroe, 

And  copse  or  Cruchan-Ben;  30 

But  here, —  above,  around,  below. 

On  mountain  or  in  glen. 
Nor  tree,  nor  shrub,  nor  plant,  nor  flower, 
Nor  aught  of  vegetative  power. 

The  weary  eye  may  ken.  35 

For  all  is  rocks  at  random  thrown, 
Black  waves,  bare  crags,  and  banks  of  stone. 

As  if  were  here  denied 
The  summer  sun,  the  spring's  sweet  dew, 
That  clothe  with  many  a  varied  hue  40 

The  bleakest  mountain-side. 


SCOTT  409 

And  wilder,  forward  as  they  wound, 

Were  the  proud  cliffs  and  lake  profound. 

Huge  terraces  of  granite  black 

Afforded  rude  and  cumber' d  track;  45 

For  from  the  mountain  hoar, 
Hurl'd  headlong  in  some  night  of  fear, 
When  yell'd  the  wolf,  and  fled  the  deer. 

Loose  crags  had  toppled  o'er; 
And  some,  chance-poised  and  balanced,  lay  50 

So  that  a  stripling  arm  might  sway 

A  mass  no  host  could  raise. 
In  Nature's  rage  at  random  thrown, 
Yet  trembling  like  the  Druid's  stone 

On  its  precarious  base.  55 

The  evening  mists,  with  ceaseless  change, 
Now  clothed  the  mountains'  lofty  range, 

Now  left  their  foreheads  bare. 
And  round  the  skirts  their  mantle  furl'd. 
Or  on  the  sable  waters  curl'd,  60 

Or  on  the  eddying  breezes  whirl 'd. 

Dispersed  in  middle  air. 
And  oft,  condensed,  at  once  they  lower. 
When,  brief  and  fierce,  the  mountain  shower 

Pours  like  a  torrent  down,  65 

And  when  return  the  sun's  glad  beams, 
Whiten'd  with  foam  a  thousand  streams 
Leap  from  the  mountain's  crown. 

'  This  lake, '  said  Bruce,  *  whose  barriers  drear 
Are  precipices  sharp  and  sheer,  70 

Yielding  no  track  for  goat  or  deer. 

Save  the  black  shelves  we  tread, 
How  term  you  its  dark  waves?  and  how 


4IO  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

Yon  northern  mountain's  pathless  brow, 

And  yonder  peak  of  dread,  75 

That  to  the  evening  sun  uplifts 

The  griesly  gulfs  and  slaty  rifts, 

Which  seam  its  shiver'd  head?  '  — 
'Coriskin  call  the  dark  lake's  name, 
Cool  in  the  ridge,  as  bards  proclaim,  80 

From  old  Cuchullin,  chief  of  fame. 
But  bards,  familiar  in  our  isles 
Rather  with  Nature's  frowns  than  smiles, 
Full  oft  their  careless  humours  please 
By  sportive  names  from  scenes  like  these.  85 

I  would  old  Torquil  were  to  show 
His  maidens  with  their  breasts  of  snow, 
Or  that  my  noble  Liege  were  nigh 
To  hear  his  Nurse  sing  lullaby! 
(The  Maids  —  tall  cliffs  with  breakers  white,  90 

The  Nurse  —  a  torrent's  roaring  might,) 
Or  that  your  eye  could  see  the  mood 
Of  Corryvrekin's  whirlpool  rude. 
When  dons  the  Hag  her  whiten'd  hood  — 
'Tis  thus  our  islesmen's  fancy  frames,  95 

For  scenes  so  stern,  fantastic  names.' 


THE  TALISMAN 

The  Christian  Knight  and  the  Saracen  Cavalier 

The  burning  sun  of  Syria  had  not  yet  attained  its  high- 
est point  in  the  horizon,  when  a  knight  of  the  Red  Cross, 
who  had  left  his  distant  northern  home,  and  joined  the 
host  of  the  crusaders  in  Palestine,  was  pacing  slowly 


SCOTT  411 

along  the  sandy  deserts  which  lie  in  the  vicinity  of  the     5 
Dead  Sea,  where  the  waves  of  the  Jordan  pour  themselves 
into  an  inland  sea,  from  which  there  is  no  discharge  of 
waters. 

Upon  this  scene  of  desolation  the  sun  shone  with 
almost  intolerable  splendor,  and  all  living  nature  seemed  10 
to  have  hidden  itself  from  the  rays,  excepting  the  soli- 
tary figure  which  moved  through  the  flitting  sand  at  a 
foot's  pace,  and  appeared  the  sole  breathing  thing  on  the 
wide  surface  of  the  plain. 

The  dress  of  the  rider  and  the  accoutrements  of  his  15 
horse  were  peculiarly  unfit  for  the  traveller  in  such  a 
country.     A  coat  of  linked  mail,  with  long  sleeves,  plated 
gauntlets,  and  a  steel  breastplate  had  not  been  esteemed 
a  sufificient  weight  of  armor ;  there  was,  also,  his  triangular 
shield  suspended  round  his  neck,  and  his  barred  helmet  20 
of  steel,  over  which  he  had  a  hood  and  collar  of  mail, 
which  was  drawn  around   the  warrior's  shoulders  and 
throat,  and  filled  up  the  vacancy  between  the  hauberk 
and  the  head-piece.     His  lower  limbs  were  sheathed, 
like  his  body,   in  flexible  mail,  securing  the  legs  and  25 
thighs,  while  the  feet  rested  in  plated  shoes,  which  cor- 
responded with  the  gauntlets. 

A  long,  broad,  straight-shaped,  double-edged  falchion, 
with  a  handle  formed  like  a  cross,  corresponded  with  a 
stout  poniard  on  the  other  side.  The  knight  also  bore,  30 
secured  to  his  saddle,  with  one  end  resting  on  his  stirrup, 
the  long  steel-headed  lance,  his  own  proper  weapon, 
which,  as  he  rode,  projected  backwards,  and  displayed 
its  little  pennoncel,  to  dally  with  the  faint  breeze,  or 
drop  in  the  dead  calm.  To  this  cumbrous  equipment  35 
must  be  added  a  surcoat  of  embroidered  cloth,  much 
frayed  and  worn,  which  was  thus  far  useful,  that  it  ex- 


412  FROM   CHAVCER    TO  ARAOLD 

eluded  the  burning  rays  of  the  sun  from  the  armor,  which 
they  would  otherwise  have  rendered  intolerable  to  the 
wearer.  40 

The  surcoat  bore,  in  several  places,  the  arms  of  the 
owner,  although  much  defaced.  These  seemed  to  be  a 
couchant  leopard,  with  the  motto,  ^^  I  sleep  —  wake  me 
not."  An  outline  of  the  same  device  might  be  traced 
on  his  shield,  though  many  a  blow  had  almost  effaced  45 
the  painting.  The  flat  top  of  his  cumbrous  cylindrical 
helmet  was  unadorned  with  any  crest.  In  retaining  their 
own  unwieldy  defensive  armor,  the  northern  crusaders 
seemed  to  set  at  defiance  the  nature  of  the  climate  and 
country  to  which  they  were  come  to  war.  50 

The  accoutrements  of  the  horse  were  scarcely  less 
massive  and  unwieldy  than  those  of  the  rider.     The 
animal  had  a  heavy  saddle  plated  wjth  steel,  uniting  in 
front  with  a  species  of  breastplate,  and  behind  with 
defensive  armor  made  to  cover  the  loins.     Then  there  55 
was  a  steel  axe,  or  hammer,  called  a  mace-of-arras,  and 
which  hung  to  the  saddle-bow;  the  reins  were  secured 
by  chain  work,  and  the  front  stall  of  the  bridle  was  a 
steel  plate,  with  apertures  for  the  eyes  and  nostrils, 
having  in  the  midst  a  short,  sharp  pike,  projecting  from  60 
the  forehead  of  the  horse  like  the  horn  of  the  fabulous  - 
unicorn. 

But  habit  had  made  the  endurance  of  this  load  of 
panoply  a  second  nature,  both  to  the  knight  and  his 
gallant  charger.  Numbers,  indeed,  of  the  western  war-  65 
riors  who  hurried  to  Palestine  died  ere  they  became 
inured  to  the  burning  climate;  but  there  were  others  to 
whom  that  climate  became  innocent,  and  even  friendly, 
and  among  this  fortunate  number  was  the  solitary  horse- 
man who  now  traversed  the  border  of  the  Dead  Sea.  70 


SCOTT  413 

Nature,  which  cast  his  limbs  in  a  mould  of  uncommon 
strength,  fitted  to  wear  his  linked  hauberk  with  as  much 
ease  as  if  the  meshes  had  been  formed  of  cobwebs,  had 
endowed  him  with  a  constitution  as  strong  as  his  limbs, 
and  which  bade  defiance  to  almost  all  changes  of  cli-  75 
mate,  as  well  as  to  fatigue  and  privations  of  every  kind. 
His  disposition  seemed,  in  some  degree,  to  partake  of 
the  qualities  of  his  bodily  frame;  and  as  the  one  pos- 
sessed great  strength  and  endurance,  united  with  the 
power  of  violent  exertion,  the  other,  under  a  calm  and  80 
undisturbed  semblance,  had  much  of  the  fiery  and  en- 
thusiastic love  of  glory  which  constituted  the  principal 
attribute  of  the  renowned  Norman  line,  and  had  ren- 
dered them  sovereigns  in  every  corner  of  Europe  where 
they  had  drawn  their  adventurous  swords.  85 

Nature  had,  however,  her  demands  for  refreshment 
and  repose  even  on  the  iron  frame  and  patient  disposi- 
tion of  the  Knight  of  the  Sleeping  Leopard;  and  at 
noon,  when  the  Dead  Sea  lay  at  some  distance  on  his 
right,  he  joyfully  hailed  the  sight  of  two  or  three  palm-  90 
trees,  which  arose  beside  the  well  which  was  assigned 
for  his  mid-day  station.  His  good  horse,  too,  which 
had  plodded  forward  with  the  steady  endurance  of  his 
master,  now  lifted  his  head,  expanded  his  nostrils,  and 
quickened  his  pace,  as  if  he  snuffed  afar  off  the  living  95 
waters,  which  marked  the  place  of  repose  and  refresh- 
ment. But  labor  and  danger  were  doomed  to  intervene 
ere  the  horse  or  horseman  reached  the  desired  spot. 

As  the  Knight  of  the  Couchant  Leopard  continued  to 
fix  his  eyes  attentively  on  the  yet  distant  cluster  of  palm- 100 
trees,  it  seemed  to  him  as  if  some  object  was  moving 
among  them.     The  distant  form  separated  itself  from 
the  trees,  which  partly  hid  its  motions,  and  advanced 


414  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

towards  the  knight  with  a  speed  which  soon  showed  a 
mounted  horseman,  whom  his  turban,  long  spear,  and  105 
green  caftan  floating  in  the  wind,  on  his  nearer  ap- 
proach, proved  to  be  a  Saracen  cavalier.  "In  the 
desert,"  saith  an  Eastern  proverb,  "no  man  meets  a 
friend."  The  crusader  was  totally  indifferent  whether 
the  infidel,  who  now  approached  on  his  gallant  barb  as  no 
if  borne  on  the  wings  of  an  eagle,  came  as  friend  or 
foe  —  perhaps,  as  a  vowed  champion  of  the  cross,  he 
might  rather  have  preferred  the  latter.  He  disengaged 
his  lance  from  his  saddle,  seized  it  with  the  right  hand, 
placed  it  in  rest  with  its  point  half  elevated,  gathered  115 
up  the  reins  in  the  left,  waked  his  horse's  mettle  with 
the  spur,  and  prepared  to  encounter  the  stranger  with 
the  calm  self-confidence  belonging  to  the  victor  in  many 
contests. 

The  Saracen  came  on  at  the  speedy  gallop  of  an  Arab  120 
horseman,  managing  his  steed  more  by  his  limbs  and 
the  inflection  of  his  body  than  by  any  use  of  the  reins 
which  hung  loose  in  his  left  hand;  so  that  he  was  en- 
abled to  wield  the  light  round  buckler  of  the  skin  of  the 
rhinoceros,  ornamented  with  silver  loops,  which  he  wore  125 
on  his  arm,  swinging  it  as  if  he  meant  to  oppose  its 
slender  circle  to  the  formidable  thrust  of  the  Western 
lance.     His  own  long  spear  was  not  couched  or  levelled 
like  that  of  his  antagonist,  but  grasped  by  the  middle 
with  his  right  hand,   and  brandished  at  arm's  length  130 
above  his  head.     As  the  cavalier  approached  his  enemy 
at  full  career,  he  seemed  to  expect  that  the  Knight  of  the 
Leopard  would  put  his  horse  to  the  gallop  to  encounter 
him. 

But  the  Christian  knight,  well  acquainted  with  the  cus-  135 
toms  of  Eastern  warriors,  did  not  mean  to  exhaust  his 


SCOTT  415 

good  horse  by  any  unnecessary  exertion;  and,  on  the 
contrary,  made  a  dead  halt,  confident  that  if  the  enemy 
advanced  to  the  actual  shock,  his  own  weight,  and  that 
of  his  powerful  charger,  would  give  him  sufficient  ad- 140 
vantage,   without  the  additional   momentum   of   rapid 
motion.     Equally  sensible  and  apprehensive  of  such  a 
probable  result,  the  Saracen  cavalier,  when  he  had  ap- 
proached towards  the  Christian  within  twice  the  length 
of  his  lance,  wheeled  his  steed  to  the  left  with  inimitable  145 
dexterity,  and  rode  twice  around  his  antagonist,  who, 
turning  without  quitting  his  ground,  and  presenting  his 
front  constantly  to  his  enemy,  frustrated  his  attempts  to 
attack  him  on  an  unguarded  point;  so  that  the  Saracen, 
wheeling  his  horse,  was  fain  to  retreat  to  the  distance  of  150 
a  hundred  yards. 

A  second  time,  like  a  hawk  attacking  a  heron,  the 
heathen  renewed  the  charge,  and  a  second  time  was 
fain  to  retreat  without  coming  to  a  close  struggle.  A 
third  time  he  approached  in  the  same  manner,  when  the  155 
Christian  knight,  desirous  to  terminate  this  illusory  war- 
fare, in  which  he  might  at  length  have  been  worn  out  by 
the  activity  of  his  foeman,  suddenly  seized  the  mace 
which  hung  at  his  saddle-bow,  and,  with  a  strong  hand 
and  unerring  aim,  hurled  it  against  the  head  of  the  160 
emir;  for  such,  and  not  less,  his  enemy  appeared. 

The  Saracen  was  just  aware  of  the  formidable  missile 
in  time  to  interpose  his  light  buckler  betwixt  the  mace 
and  his  head;  but  the  violence  of  the  blow  forced  the 
buckler  down  on  his  turban,  and  though  that  defence  165 
also  contributed  to  deaden  its  violence,  the  Saracen  was 
beaten  from  his  horse.  Ere  the  Christian  could  avail 
himself  of  this  mishap,  his  nimble  foeman  sprang  from 
the  ground,  and,  calling  on  his  steed,  which  instantly  re- 


4l6  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

turned  to  his  side,  he  leaped  into  his  seat  without  touch-  170 
ing  the  stirrup,  and  regained  all  the  advantage  of  which 
the  Knight  of  the  Leopard  had  hoped  to  deprive  him. 

But  the  latter  had  in  the  meanwhile  recovered  his 
mace,  and  the  Eastern  cavalier,  who  remembered  the 
strength  and  dexterity  with  which  his  antagonist  had  175 
aimed  it,  seemed  to  keep  cautiously  out  of  reach  of  that 
weapon,  of  which  he  had  so  lately  felt  the  force;  while 
he  showed  his  purpose  of  waging  a  distant  warfare  with 
missile  weapons  of  his  own.  Planting  his  long  spear  in 
the  sand  at  a  distance  from  the  scene  of  combat,  he  180 
strung  with  great  address  a  short  bow,  which  he  carried 
at  his  back,  and,  putting  his  horse  to  the  gallop,  once 
more  described  two  or  three  circles  of  a  wider  extent 
than  formerly,  in  the  course  of  which  he  discharged  six 
arrows  at  the  Christian  with  such  unerring  skill  that  the  185 
goodness  of  his  harness  alone  saved  him  from  being 
wounded  in  as  many  places.  The  seventh  shaft  appar- 
ently found  a  less  perfect  part  of  the  armor,  and  the 
Christian  dropped  heavily  from  his  horse. 

But  what  was  the  surprise  of  the  Saracen,  when,  dis-  190 
mounting  to  examine  the  condition  of   his   prostrate 
enemy,  he  found  himself  suddenly  within  the  grasp  of 
the  European,  who  had  had  recourse  to  this  artifice  to 
bring  his  enemy  within  his  reach.     Even  in  this  deadly 
grapple,  the  Saracen  was  saved  by  his  agility  and  pres- 195 
ence  of  mind.     He  unloosed  the  sword-belt,  in  which 
the  Knight  of  the  Leopard  had  fixed  his  hold,  and  thus 
eluding  his  fatal  grasp,  mounted  his  horse,  which  seemed 
to  watch  his  motions  with  the  intelligence  of  a  human 
being,  and  again  rode  off.     But  in  the  last  encounter  200 
the  Saracen  had  lost  his  sword  and  his  quiver  of  arrows, 
both  of  which  were  attached  to  the  girdle,  which  he  was 


SCOTT  417 

obliged  to  abandon.     He  had  also  lost  his  turban  in  the 
struggle.     These  disadvantages  seemed  to  incline  the 
Moslem  to  a  truce ;  he  approached  the  Christian  with  205 
his  right  hand  extended,  but  no  longer  in  a  menacing 
attitude. 

"There  is  truce  betwixt  our  nations,"  he  said,  in  the 
lingua  franca  commonly  used  for  the  purpose  of  com- 
munication with  the  crusaders;  "wherefore  should  there  210 
be  war  betwixt  thee  and  me?     Let  there  be  peace  be- 
twixt us." 

"I  am  well  contented,"  answered  he  of  the  Couchant 
Leopard;  "but  what  security  dost  thou  offer  that  thou 
wilt  observe  the  truce?"  215 

"The  word  of  a  follower  of  the  Prophet  was  never 
broken,"  answered  the  emir.  "It  is  thou,  brave  Naza- 
rene,  from  whom  I  should  demand  security,  did  1  not 
know  that  treason  seldom  dwells  with  courage." 

The  crusader  felt  that  the  confidence  of  the  Moslem  220 
made  him  ashamed  of  his  own  doubts. 

"  By  the  cross  of  my  sword,"  he  said,  laying  his  hand 
on  the  weapon  as  he  spoke,  "  I  will  be  true  companion 
to  thee,  Saracen,  while  our  fortune  wills  that  we  remain 
in  company  together."  225 

"  By  Mohammed,  Prophet  of  God,  and  by  Allah,  God 
of  the  Prophet,"  replied  his  late  foeman,  "there  is  not 
treachery  in  my  heart  towards  thee.  And  now  wend  we 
to  yonder  fountain,  for  the  hour  of  rest  is  at  hand,  and 
the  stream  had  hardly  touched  my  lip  when  I  was  called  230 
to  battle  by  thy  approach." 

The  Knight  of  the  Couchant  Leopard  yielded  a  ready 
and  courteous  assent;  and  the  late  foes,  without  an  angry 
look  or  gesture  of  doubt,  rode  side  by  side  to  the  little 
cluster  of  palm-trees.  235 

2E 


WALTER   SAVAGE    LANDOR 

(1775-1864) 

A   FIESOLAN   IDYL 

Here,  when  precipitate  Spring  with  one  light  bound 
Into  hot  Summer's  lusty  arms  expires; 
And  where  go  forth  at  morn,  at  eve,  at  night. 
Soft  airs,  that  want  the  lute  to  play  with  them, 
And  softer  sighs,  that  know  not  what  they  want ; 
Under  a  wall,  beneath  an  orange  tree 
Whose  tallest  flowers  could  tell  the  lowlier  ones 
Of  sights  in  Fiesole  right  up  above, 
While  I  was  gazing  a  few  paces  off 
At  what  they  seemed  to  show  me  with  their  nods,  ic 

Their  frequent  whispers  and  their  pointing  shoots, 
A  gentle  maid  came  down  the  garden  steps 
And  gathered  the  pure  treasure  in  her  lap. 
I  heard  the  branches  rustle,  and  stept  forth 
To  drive  the  ox  away,  or  mule,  or  goat,  15 

(Such  I  believed  it  must  be);  for  sweet  scents 
Are  the  swift  vehicles  of  still  sweeter  thoughts, 
And  nurse  and  pillow  the  dull  memory 
That  would  let  drop  without  them  her  best  stores. 
They  bring  me  tales  of  youth  and  tones  of  love,  jo 

And  'tis  and  ever  was  my  wish  and  way 
To  let  all  flowers  live  freely,  and  all  die. 
Whene'er  their  Genius  bids  their  souls  depart, 
418 


LAN  DOR  419 

Among  their  kindred  in  their  native  place. 

I  never  pluck  the  rose;  the  violet's  head  25 

Hath  shaken  with  my  breath  upon  its  bank 

And  not  reproacht  me;  the  ever-sacred  cup 

Of  the  pure  lily  hath  between  my  hands 

Felt  safe,  unsoiled,  nor  lost  one  grain  of  gold. 

I  saw  the  light  that  made  the  glossy  leaves  30 

More  glossy;  the  fair  arm,  the  fairer  cheek 

Warmed  by  the  eye  intent  on  its  pursuit; 

I  saw  the  foot,  that  although  half  erect 

From  its  grey  slippers,  could  not  lift  her  up 

To  what  she  wanted;  I  held  down  a  branch,  35 

And  gathered  her  some  blossoms,  since  their  hour 

Was  come,  and  bees  had  wounded  them,  and  flies 

Of  harder  wing  were  working  their  way  through 

And  scattering  them  in  fragments  under  foot. 

So  crisp  were  some,  they  rattled  unevolved,  40 

Others,  ere  broken  off,  fell  into  shells. 

For  such  appear  the  petals  when  detacht. 

Unbending,  brittle,  lucid,  white  like  snow, 

And  like  snow  not  seen  through,  by  eye  or  sun; 

Yet  every  one  her  gown  received  from  me  45 

Was  fairer  than  the  first;  I  thought  not  so, 

But  so  she  praised  them  to  reward  my  care, 

I  said:  'You  find  the  largest.' 

'This  indeed,' 
Cried  she,  *  is  large  and  sweet. '  50 

She  held  one  forth, 
Whether  for  me  to  look  at  or  to  take 
She  knew  not,  nor  did  I ;  but  taking  it 
Would  best  have  solved  (and  this  she  felt)  her  doubt. 
I  dared  not  touch  it;  for  it  seemed  a  part  55 

Of  her  own  self;  fresh,  full,  the  most  mature 


420  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD  ' 

Of  blossoms,  yet  a  blossom;  with  a  touch 
To  fall,  and  yet  unfallen. 

She  drew  back 
The  boon  she  tendered,  and  then,  finding  not  60 

The  ribbon  at  her  waist  to  fix  it  in, 
Dropt  it,  as  loth  to  drop  it,  on  the  rest. 


IPHIGENEIA  AND  AGAMEMNON 

Iphigeneia,  when  she  heard  her  doom 
At  Aulis,  and  when  all  beside  the  King 
Had  gone  away,  took  his  right  hand,  and  said, 
*0  father!     I  am  young  and  very  happy. 
I  do  not  think  the  pious  Calchas  heard 
Distinctly  what  the  Goddess  spake.     Old-age 
Obscures  the  senses.     If  my  nurse,  who  knew 
My  voice  so  well,  sometimes  misunderstood 
While  I  was  resting  on  her  knee  both  arms 
And  hitting  it  to  make  her  mind  my  words. 
And  looking  in  her  face,  and  she  in  mine, 
Might  he  not  also  hear  one  word  amiss. 
Spoken  from  so  far  off,  even  from  Olympus  ? ' 
The  father  placed  his  cheek  upon  her  head. 
And  tears  dropt  down  it,  but  the  king  of  men 
Replied  not.     Then  the  maiden  spake  once  more. 
'O  father!  sayst  thou  nothing?     Hear'st  thou  not 
Me,  whom  thou  ever  hast,  until  this  hour. 
Listened  to  fondly,  and  awakened  me 
To  hear  my  voice  amid  the  voice  of  birds. 
When  it  was  inarticulate  as  theirs, 
And  the  down  deadened  it  within  the  nest?  ' 


LANDOR  421 

He  moved  her  gently  from  him,  silent  still, 

And  this,  and  this  alone,  brought  tears  from  her, 

Although  she  saw  fate  nearer:  then  with  sighs,  25 

'I  thought  to  have  laid  down  my  hair  before 

Benignant  Artemis,  and  not  have  dimmed 

Her  polisht  altar  with  my  virgin  blood; 

I  thought  to  have  selected  the  white  flowers 

To  please  the  Nymphs,  and  to  have  asked  of  each     30 

By  name,  and  with  no  sorrowful  regret. 

Whether,  since  both  my  parents  will  the  change, 

I  might  at  Hymen's  feet  bend  my  dipt  brow; 

And  (after  those  who  mind  us  girls  the  most) 

Adore  our  own  Athena,  that  she  would  35 

Regard  me  mildly  with  her  azure  eyes. 

But,  father !  to  see  you  no  more,  and  see 

Your  love,  O  father !  go  ere  I  am  gone. "... 

Gently  he  moved  her  off,  and  drew  her  back, 

Bending  his  lofty  head  far  over  hers,  40 

And  the  dark  depths  of  nature  heaved  and  burst. 

He  turned  away;  not  far,  but  silent  still. 

She  now  first  shuddered;  for  in  him,  so  nigh. 

So  long  a  silence  seemed  the  approach  of  death, 

And  like  it.     Once  again  she  raised  her  voice.         45 

*0  father!  if  the  ships  are  now  detained. 

And  all  your  vows  move  not  the  Gods  above. 

When  the  knife  strikes  me  there  will  be  one  prayer 

The  less  to  them :  and  purer  can  there  be 

Any,  or  more  fervent  than  the  daughter's  prayer       50 

For  her  dear  father's  safety  and  success?  ' 

A  groan  that  shook  him  shook  not  his  resolve. 

An  aged  man  now  entered,  and  without 

One  word,  stept  slowly  on,  and  took  the  wrist 

Of  the  pale  maiden.     She  looked  up,  and  saw  55 


422  FROM   CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

The  fillet  of  the  priest  and  calm  cold  eyes. 
Then  turned  she  where  her  parent  stood,  and  cried 
'O  father!  grieve  no  more:  the  ships  can  sail.' 


CHILDREN   PLAYING   IN   A  CHURCHYARD 

Children,  keep  up  that  harmless  play, 
Your  kindred  angels  plainly  say 
By  God's  authority  ye  may. 

Be  prompt  his  Holy  word  to  hear, 
It  teaches  you  to  banish  fear. 
The  lesson  lies  on  all  sides  near. 

Ten  summers  hence  the  sprightliest  lad 
In  Nature's  face  will  look  more  sad, 
And  ask  where  are  those  smiles  she  had? 

Ere  many  days  the  last  will  close. 

Play  on,  play  on,  for  then  (who  knows?) 

Ye  who  play  here  may  here  repose. 


TO  THE  SISTER  OF  ELIA 

Comfort  thee,  O  thou  mourner,  yet  awhile ! 

Again  shall  Elia's  smile 
Refresh  thy  heart,  when  heart  can  ache  no  more; 

What  is  it  we  deplore? 

He  leaves  behind  him,  freed  from  griefs  and  years. 

Far  worthier  things  than  tears. 
The  love  of  friends  without  a  single  foe; 

Unequalled  lot  below ! 


LAND  OR  423 

His  gentle  soul,  his  genius,  these  are  thine; 

For  these  dost  thou  repine?  10 

He  may  have  left  the  lowly  walks  of  men; 

Left  them  he  has,  what  then? 

Are  not  his  footsteps  followed  by  the  eyes 

Of  all  the  good  and  wise? 
Though  the  warm  day  is  over,  yet  they  seek  15 

Upon  the  holy  peak 

Of  his  pure  mind  the  roseate  light  that  glows 

O'er  death's  perennial  snows. 
Behold  him !  from  the  region  of  the  blest 

He  speaks :  he  bids  thee  rest.  20 


ROBERT   BROWNING 

There  is  delight  in  singing,  though  no  one  hear 

Beside  the  singer;  and  there  is  delight 

In  praising,  though  the  praiser  sit  alone 

And  see  the  prais'd  far  off  him,  far  above. 

Shakespeare  is  not  our  poet,  but  the  world's, 

Therefore  on  him  no  speech !  and  brief  for  thee, 

Browning !     Since  Chaucer  was  alive  and  hale, 

No  man  hath  walk'd  along  our  roads  with  steps 

So  active,  so  inquiring  eye,  or  tongue 

So  varied  in  discourse.     But  warmer  climes 

Give  brighter  plumage,  stronger  wing :  the  breeze 

Of  Alpine  heights  thou  playest  with,  borne  on 

Beyond  Sorrento  and  Amalfi,  where 

The  Siren  waits  thee,  singing  song  for  song. 


424  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

ON   HIS   SEVENTY-FIFTH   BIRTHDAY 

I  STROVE  with  none,  for  none  was  worth  my  strife, 
Nature  I  loved,  and  next  to  Nature,  Art; 

I  warmed  both  hands  before  the  fire  of  life, 
It  sinks,  and  I  am  ready  to  depart. 


I  know  not  whether  I  am  proud. 
But  this  I  know,  I  hate  a  crowd; 
Therefore  pray  let  me  disengage 
My  verses  from  the  motley  page. 
Where  others,  far  more  sure  to  please. 
Pour  out  their  choral  song  with  ease. 
And  yet  perhaps,  if  some  should  tire 
With  too  much  froth  or  too  much  fire. 
There  is  an  ear  that  may  incline 
Even  to  words  as  dull  as  mine. 


The  chrysolites  and  rubies  Bacchus  brings 

To  crown  the  pearls  where  swells  the  broad-vein'd  brow. 
Where  maidens  blush  at  what  the  minstrel  sings. 

They  who  have  coveted  may  covet  now. 

Bring  me,  in  cool  alcove,  the  grape  uncrush'd, 
The  peach  of  pulpy  cheek  and  down  mature. 

Where  every  voice  (but  bird's  or  child's)  is  hush'd, 
And  every  thought,  like  the  brook  nigh,  runs  pure. 


Death  stands  above  me,  whispering  low 

I  know  not  what  into  my  ear: 
Of  his  strange  language  all  I  know 
^  Is,  there  is  not  a  word  of  fear. 


CHARLES    LAMB 
(1775-1834) 

THE   TWO   RACES   OF  MEN 

The  human  species,  according  to  the  best  theory  I 
can  form  of  it,  is  composed  of  two  distinct  races,  the 
men  who  borrow,  and  the  men  who  lend.  To  these  two 
original  diversities  may  be  reduced  all  those  impertinent 
classifications  of  Gothic  and  Celtic  tribes,  white  men, 
black  men,  red  men.  All  the  dwellers  upon  earth, 
"Parthians,  and  Medes,  and  Elamites,"  flock  hither, 
and  do  naturally  fall  in  with  one  or  other  of  these  pri- 
mary distinctions.  The  infinite  superiority  of  the 
former,  which  I  chose  to  designate  as  the  great  race,  is 
discernible  in  their  figure,  port,  and  a  certain  instinctive 
sovereignty.  The  latter  are  born  degraded.  "  He  shall 
serve  his  brethren."  There  is  something  in  the  air  of 
one  of  this  cast,  lean  and  suspicious;  contrasting  with 
the  open,  trusting,  generous  manners  of  the  other. 

Observe  who  have  been  the  greatest  borrowers  of  all 
ages  —  Alcibiades  —  Falstaff  —  Sir  Richard  Steele  —  our 
late  incomparable  Brinsley  —  what  a  family  likeness  in 
all  four ! 

What  a  careless,  even  deportment  hath  your  bor- 
rower! what  rosy  gills!  what  a  beautiful  reliance  on 
Providence  doth  he  manifest,  —  taking  no  more  thought 
than  lilies !  What  contempt  for  money,  —  accounting  it 
(yours  and  mine  especially)  no  better  than  dross!    What 

425 


426  FROM   CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

a.  liberal  confounding  of  those  pedantic  distinctions  of  25 
tneum  and  iuum  !  or  rather,  what  a  noble  simplification 
of  language  (beyond  Tooke),  resolving  these  supposed 
opposites  into  one  clear,  intelligible  pronoun  adjective! 
—  What  near  approaches  doth  he  make  to  the  primitive 
community  —  to  the  extent  of  one  half  of  the  principle  30 
at  least. 

He  is  the  true  taxer  who  "  calleth  all  the  world  up  to 
be  taxed  ";  and  the  distance  is  as  vast  between  him  and 
one  of  us,  as  subsisted  between  the  Augustan  Majesty  and 
the  poorest  obolary  Jew  that  paid  it  tribute-pittance  at  35 
Jerusalem !  —  His  exactions,  too,  have  such  a  cheerful, 
voluntary  air!  So  far  removed  from  your  sour  paro- 
chial or  state-gatherers,  —  those  ink-horn  varlets,  who 
carry  their  want  of  welcome  in  their  faces !  He  cometh 
to  you  with  a  smile,  and  troubleth  you  with  no  receipt ;  40 
confining  himself  to  no  set  season.  Every  day  is  his 
Candlemas,  or  his  feast  of  Holy  Michael.  He  applieth 
the  lene  tormentum  of  a  pleasant  look  to  your  purse,  — 
which  to  that  gentle  warmth  expands  her  silken  leaves, 
as  naturally  as  the  cloak  of  the  traveller,  for  which  sun  45 
and  wind  contended !  He  is  the  true  Propontic  which 
never  ebbeth !  The  sea  which  taketh  handsomely  at  each 
man's  hand.  In  vain  the  victim,  whom  he  delighteth 
to  honour,  struggles  with  destiny;  he  is  in  the  net. 
Lend  therefore  cheerfully,  O  man  ordained  to  lend —  50 
that  thou  lose  not  in  the  end,  with  thy  worldly  penny, 
the  reversion  promised.  Combine  not  preposterously 
in  thine  own  person  the  penalties  of  Lazarus  and  of 
Dives!  —  but,  when  thou  seest  the  proper  authority  com- 
ing, meet  it  smilingly,  as  it  were  half-way.  Come,  a  55 
handsome  sacrifice!  See  how  light  he  makes  of  it! 
Strain  not  courtesies  with  a  noble  enemy. 


LAMB  427 

Reflections  like  the  foregoing  were  forced  upon  my 
mind  by  the  death  of  my  old  friend,  Ralph  Bigod,  Esq., 
who  parted  this  life  on  Wednesday  evening;  dying,  as  60 
he  had  lived,  without  much  trouble.  He  boasted  him- 
self a  descendant  from  mighty  ancestors  of  that  name, 
who  heretofore  held  ducal  dignities  in  this  realm.  In 
his  actions  and  sentiments  he  belied  not  the  stock  to 
which  he  pretended.  Early  in  life  he  found  himself  in-  65 
vested  with  ample  revenues;  which,  with  that  noble  dis- 
interestedness which  I  have  noticed  as  inherent  in  men 
of  the  great  race,  he  took  almost  immediate  measures 
entirely  to  dissipate  and  bring  to  nothing:  for  there  is 
something  revolting  in  the  idea  of  a  king  holding  a  pri-  70 
vate  purse;  and  the  thoughts  of  Bigod  were  all  regal. 
Thus  furnished,  by  the  very  act  of  disfurnishment;  get- 
ting rid  of  the  cumbersome  luggage  of  riches,  more  apt 
(as  one  sings) 

To  slacken  virtue,  and  abate  her  edge,  75 

Than  prompt  her  to  do  aught  may  merit  praise, 

he  set  forth,  like  some  Alexander,  upon  his  great  enter- 
prise, "borrowing  and  to  borrow!  " 

In  his  periegesis,  or  triumphant  progress  throughout 
this  island,  it  has  been  calculated  that  he  laid  a  tythe  80 
part  of  the  inhabitants  under  contribution.  I  reject 
this  estimate  as  greatly  exaggerated:  —  but  having  had 
the  honour  of  accompanying  my  friend,  divers  times,  in 
his  perambulations  about  this  vast  city,  I  own  I  was 
greatly  struck  at  first  with  the  prodigious  number  of  85 
faces  we  met,  who  claimed  a  sort  of  respectful  acquaint- 
ance with  us.  He  was  one  day  so  obliging  as  to  explain 
the  phenomenon.  It  seems  these  were  his  tributaries; 
feeders  of  his  exchequer;  gentlemen,  his  good  friends 


428  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

(as  he  was  pleased  to  express  himself),  to  whom  he  90 
had  occasionally  been  beholden  for  a  loan.     Their  mul- 
titudes did  no  way  disconcert  him.     He  rather  took  a 
pride  in  numbering  them;   and,  with  Comus,  seemed 
pleased  to  be  "  stocked  with  so  fair  a  herd." 

With  such  sources,  it  was  a  wonder  how  he  contrived  95 
to  keep  his  treasury  always  empty.     He  did  it  by  force 
of  an  aphorism,  which  Ke  had  often  in  his  mouth,  that 
"money  kept  longer  than  three  days  stinks."     So  he 
made  use  of  it  while  it  was  fresh.     A  good  part  he  drank 
away  (for  he  was  an  excellent  toss-pot,)  some  he  gave  100 
away,  the  rest  he  threw  away,  literally  tossing  and  hurl- 
ing it  violently  from  him  —  as  boys  do  burrs,  or  as  if  it 
had  been  infectious,  —  into  ponds,  or  ditches,  or  deep 
holes,  inscrutable  cavities  of  the  earth;  —  or  he  would 
bury  it  (where  he  would  never  seek  it  again)  by  a  river's  105 
side  under  some  bank,  which  (he  would  facetiously  ob- 
serve) paid  no  interest  —  but  out  away  from  him  it  must 
go  peremptorily,  as  Hagar's  offspring  into  the  wilderness, 
while  it  was  sweet.     He  never  missed  it.     The  streams 
were  perennial  which  fed  his  fisc.     When  new  supplies  no 
became  necessary,  the  first  person  that  had  the  felicity  to 
fall  in  with  him,  friend  or  stranger,  was  sure  to  contrib- 
ute to  the  deficiency.     For  Bigod  had  an  undeniable  way 
with  him.     He  had  a  cheerful,  open  exterior,  a  quick 
jovial   eye,   a  bald   forehead,   just   touched  with   grey  115 
{cana  fides).     He  anticipated  no   excuse,  and  found 
none.     And,  waiving  for  a  while  my  theory  as  to  the 
great  race,   I  would  put  it  to  the  most   untheorising 
reader,  who  may  at  times  have  disposable  coin  in  his 
pocket,  whether  it  is  not  more  repugnant  to  the  kindli- 120 
ness  of  his  nature  to  refuse  such  a  one  as  I  am  describ- 
ing, than  to  say  no  to  a  poor  petitionary  rogue  (your 


LAMB  429 

bastard  borrower),  who,  by  his  mumping  visnomy,  tells 
you  that  he  expects  nothing  better;  and,  therefore,  whose 
preconceived  notions  and  expectations  you  do  in  reality  125 
so  much  less  shock  in  the  refusal. 

When  I  think  of  this  man;  his  fiery  glow  of  heart;  his 
swell  of  feeling;  how  magnificent,  how  ideal  he  was; 
how  great  at  the  midnight  hour;  and  when  I  compare 
with  him  the  companions  with  whom  I  have  associated  130 
since,  I  grudge  the  saving  of  a  few  idle  ducats,  and 
think  that  I  am  fallen  into  the  society  of  lenders,  and 
little  men. 

To  one  like  Elia,  whose  treasures  are  rather  cased  in 
leather  covers  than  closed  in  iron  coffers,  there  is  a  class  135 
of  alienators  more  formidable  than  that  which  I  have 
touched  upon ;  I  mean  your  borrowers  of  books  —  those 
mutilators  of  collections,  spoilers  of  the  symmetry  of 
shelves,  and  creators  of  odd  volumes.  There  is  Com- 
berbatch,  matchless  in  his  depredations !  140 

That  foul  gap  in  the  bottom  shelf  facing  you,  like  a 
great  eye-tooth  knocked  out  —  (you  are  now  with  me  in 
my  little  back  study  in  Bloomsbury,  Reader !)  —  with 
the  huge  Switzer-like  tomes  on  each  side  (like  the 
Guildhall  giants,  in  their  reformed  posture,  guardant  of  145 
nothing)  once  held  the  tallest  of  my  folios.  Opera  Bona- 
venticrce,  choice  and  massy  divinity,  to  which  its  two 
supporters  (school  divinity  also,  but  of  a  lesser  calibre, 

—  Bellarmine,  and  Holy  Thomas),  showed  but  as  dwarfs, 

—  itself   an   Ascapart !  —  that  Comberbatch  abstracted  150 
upon  the  faith  of  a  theory  he  holds,  which  is  more  easy, 

I  confess,  for  me  to  suffer  by  than  to  refute,  namely, 
that  "  the  title  to  property  in  a  book  (my  Bonaventure, 
for  instance)  is  in  exact  ratio  to  the  claimant's  powers 
of  understanding  and  appreciating  the  same."     Should  155 


430  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

he  go  on  acting  upon  this  theory,  which  of  our  shelves 
is  safe? 

The  slight  vacuum  in  the  left-hand  case  —  two  shelves 
from  the  ceiling  —  scarcely  distinguishable  but  by  the 
quick  eye  of  a  loser  —  was  whilom  the  commodious  rest-  i6o 
ing-place  of   Browne  on  Urn  Burial.     C.   will  hardly 
allege  that  he  knows  more  about  that  treatise  than  I  do, 
who  introduced  it  to  him,  and  was  indeed  the  first  (of 
the  moderns)  to  discover  its  beauties  —  but  so  have  I 
known  a  foolish  lover  to  praise  his  mistress  in  the  pres- 165 
ence  of  a  rival  more  qualified  to  carry  her  off  than  him- 
self.—  Just  below,  Dodsley's  dramas  want  their  fourth 
volume,  where  Vittoria  Corombona  is !     The  remainder 
nine  are  as  distasteful  as  Priam's  refuse  sons,  when  the 
Fates  borrowed  Hector.     Here  stood  the  Anatomy  of  170 
Melancholy,  in  sober  state.  —  There  loitered  the  Com- 
plete Angler;  quiet  as  in  life,  by  some  stream  side.     In 
yonder  nook,   John  Buncle,   a  widower-volume,  with 
"eyes  closed,"  mourns  his  ravished  mate. 

One  justice  I  must  do  my  friend,  that  if  he  some- 175 
times,  like  the  sea,  sweeps  away  a  treasure,  at  another 
time,   sea-like,   he  throws  up  as  rich  an  equivalent  to 
match   it.      I   have   a   small   under-collection   of   this 
nature   (my  friend's  gatherings  in  his  various  calls), 
picked  up,  he  has  forgotten  at  what  odd  places,  and  de- 180 
posited  with  as  little  memory  at  mine.     I  take  in  these 
orphans,  the  twice-deserted.     These  proselytes  of  the 
gate  are  welcome  as  the  true    Hebrews.     There  they 
stand  in  conjunction;    natives,  and  naturalised.     The 
latter  seem  as  little  disposed  to  inquire  out  their  true  185 
lineage  as  I  am.  —  I  charge  no  warehouse-room  for  these 
deodands,  nor  shall  ever  put  myself  to  the  ungentlemanly 
trouble  of  advertising  a  sale  of  them  to  pay  expenses. 


LAMB  43 1 

To  lose  a  volume  to  C.  carries  some  sense  and  mean- 
ing in  it.     You  are  sure  that  he  will  make  one  hearty  190 
meal  on  your  viands,  if  he  can  give  no  account  of  the 
platter  after  it.     But  what  moved  thee,  wayward,  spite- 
ful K.,  to  be  so  importune  to  carry  off  with  thee,   in 
spite  of  tears  and  adjurations  to  thee  to  forbear,  the 
Letters  of  that  princely  woman,  the  thrice  noble  Mar- 195 
garet  Newcastle  —  knowing  at  the  time,  and  knowing 
that  I  knew  also,   thou   most  assuredly  wouldst   never 
turn  over  one  leaf  of  the  illustrious  folio :  —  what  but 
the  mere  spirit  of  contradiction,  and  childish  love  of 
getting  the  better  of  thy  friend?  —  Then,  worst  cut  of  200 
all!  to  transport  it  with  thee  to  the  Gallican  land  — 

Unworthy  land  to  harbour  such  a  sweetness, 

A  virtue  in  which  all  ennobling  thoughts  dwelt, 

Pure  thoughts,  kind  thoughts,  high  thoughts,  her  sex's  wonder ! 

—  hadst  thou  not  thy  play-books,  and  books  of  jests  and  205 
fancies,  about  thee,  to  keep  thee  merry,  even  as  thou 
keepest  all  companies  with  thy  quips  and  mirthful  tales? 
Child  of  the  Green-room,  it  was  unkindly  done  of  thee. 
Thy  wife,  too,  that  part-French,  better-part-English- 
woman  !  —  that  she  could  fix  upon  no  other  treatise  to  210 
bear  away,  in  kindly  token  of  remembering  us,  than  the 
works  of  Fulke  Greville,  Lord  Brook  —  of  which  no 
Frenchman,  nor  woman  of  France,  Italy,  or  England, 
was  ever  by  nature  constituted  to  comprehend  a  tittle ! 
Was  there  not  Zimmerman  on  Solitude?  213 

Reader,  if  haply  thou  art  blessed  with  a  moderate 
collection,  be  shy  of  showing  it;  or  if  thy  heart  over- 
floweth  to  lend  them,  lend  thy  books;  but  let  it  be  to 
such  a  one  as  S.  T.  C.  —  he  will  return  them  (generally 
anticipating  the  time  appointed)  with  usury;  enriched  220 


432  FJiOM  CHAUCER  TO  ARNOLD 

with  annotations,  tripling  their  value.  I  have  had  ex- 
perience. Many  are  these  precious  MSS.  of  his  —  (in 
matter  oftentimes,  and  almost  in  quantity  not  unfre- 
quently,  vying  with  the  originals)  in  no  very  clerkly 
hand  —  legible  in  my  Daniel;  in  old  Burton;  in  Sir  225 
Thomas  Browne;  and  those  abstruser  cogitations  of  the 
Greville,  now,  alas !  wandering  in  Pagan  lands.  —  I 
counsel  thee,  shut  not  thy  heart,  nor  thy  library,  against 
S.  T.  C. 


A   DISSERTATION   ON   ROAST   PIG 

Mankind,  says  a  Chinese  manuscript,  which  my  friend 
M.  was  obliging  enough  to  read  and  explain  to  me,  for 
the  first  seventy  thousand  ages  ate  their  meat  raw,  claw- 
ing or  biting  it  from  the  living  animal,  just  as  they  do 
in  Abyssinia  to  this  day.  This  period  is  not  obscurely  5 
hinted  at  by  their  great  Confucius  in  the  second  chapter 
of  his  Mundane  Mutations,  where  he  designates  a  kind 
of  golden  age  by  the  term  Cho-fang,  literally  the  cooks' 
holiday.  The  manuscript  goes  on  to  say  that  the  art  of 
roasting,  or  rather  broiling  (which  I  take  to  be  the  elder  10 
brother),  was  accidentally  discovered  in  the  manner 
following. 

The  swine-herd  Ho-ti,  having  gone  out  into  the  woods 
one  morning,  as  his  manner  was,  to  collect  mast  for  his 
hogs,  left  his  cottage  in  the  care  of  his  eldest  son.  Bo-bo,  15 
a  great  lubberly  boy,  who,  being  fond  of  playing  with 
fire,  as  younkers  of  his  age  commonly  are,  let  some 
sparks  escape  into  a  bundle  of  straw,  which  kindling 
quickly,  spread  the  conflagration  over  every  part  of  their 
poor  mansion,  till  it  was  reduced  to  ashes.  Together  20 
with  the  cottage  (a  sorry  antediluvian  makeshift  of  a 


LAMB  433 

building,  you  may  think  it),  what  was  of  much  more 
importance,  a  fine  litter  of  new-farrowed  pigs,  not  less 
than  nine  in  number,  perished.  China  pigs  have  been 
esteemed  a  luxury  all  over  the  East  from  the  remotest  25 
periods  that  we  read  of.  Bo-bo  was  in  the  utmost  con- 
sternation, as  you  may  think,  not  so  much  for  the  sake  of 
the  tenement,  which  his  father  and  he  could  easily  build 
up  again  with  a  few  dry  branches  and  the  labor  of  an  hour 
or  two,  at  any  time,  as  for  the  loss  of  the  pigs.  30 

While  he  was  thinking  what  he  should  say  to  his 
father,  and  wringing  his  hands  over  the  smoking  rem- 
nants of  one  of  those  untimely  sufferers,  an  odor  assailed 
his  nostrils  unlike  any  scent  which  he  had  before  ex- 
perienced. What  could  it  proceed  from?  Not  from  35 
the  burned  cottage  —  he  had  smelled  that  smell  before; 
indeed,  this  was  by  no  means  the  first  accident  of  the 
kind  which  had  occurred  through  the  negligence  of  this 
unlucky  young  firebrand.  Much  less  did  it  resemble 
that  of  any  known  herb,  weed,  or  flower.  A  premoni-  40 
tory  moistening  at  the  same  time  overflowed  his  nether 
lip.  He  knew  not  what  to  think.  He  next  stooped  down 
to  feel  the  pig,  if  there  were  any  signs  of  life  in  it.  He 
burned  his  fingers,  and  to  cool  them  he  applied  them, 
in  his  booby  fashion,  to  his  mouth.  Some  of  the  crumbs  45 
of  the  scorched  skin  had  come  away  with  his  fingers, 
and  for  the  first  time  in  his  life  (in  the  world's  life  in- 
deed, for  before  him  no  man  had  known  it)  he  tasted  — 
crackling!  Again  he  felt  and  fumbled  at  the  pig.  It 
did  not  burn  him  so  much  now;  still  he  licked  his  fingers  50 
from  a  sort  of  habit.  The  truth  at  length  broke  into  his 
slow  understanding  that  it  was  the  pig  that  smelled  so, 
and  the  pig  that  tasted  so  delicious;  and,  surrendering 
himself  up  to  the  new-born  pleasure,  he  fell  to  tearing 


434  FROM   CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

up  whole  handfuls  of  the  scorched  skin  with  the  flesh  55 
next  it,  and  was  cramming  it  down  his  throat  in  his 
beastly  fashion,  when  his  sire  entered  amid  the  smoking 
rafters,  armed  with  retributory  cudgel,  and,  finding  how 
affairs  stood,  began  to  rain  blows  upon  the  young  rogue's 
shoulders  as  thick  as  hailstones,  which  Bo-bo  heeded  60 
not  any  more  than  if  they  had  been  flies.     The  tickling 
pleasure  which  he  experienced  in  his  lower  regions  had 
rendered  him  quite  callous  to  any  inconveniences  he 
might  feel  in  those  remote  quarters.     His  father  might 
lay  on,  but  he  could  not  beat  him  from  his  pig  till  he  65 
had  fairly  made  an  end  of  it,  when,  becoming  a  little 
more  sensible  of  his  situation,  something  like  the  fol- 
lowing dialogue  ensued : 

"  You  graceless  whelp,  what  have  you  got  there  devour- 
ing?    Is  it  not  enough  that  you  have  burned  me  down  70 
three  houses  with  your  dog's  tricks,  and  be  hanged  to 
youl  but  you  must  be  eating  fire,  and  I  know  not  what? 
What  have  you  got  there,  I  say?" 

"O  father,  the  pig,  the  pig!     Do  come  and  taste  how 
nice  the  burnt  pig  eats !  "  75 

The  ears  of  Ho-ti  tingled  with  horror.  He  cursed  his 
son,  and  he  cursed  himself  that  ever  he  should  beget  a 
son  that  should  eat  burnt  pig.  Bo-bo,  whose  scent  was 
wonderfully  sharpened  since  morning,  soon  raked  out 
another  pig,  and,  fairly  rending  it  asunder,  thrust  the  80 
lesser  half  by  main  force  into  the  fists  of  Ho-ti,  still 
shouting  out,  "  Eat,  eat,  eat  the  burnt  pig,  father !  only 
taste!  —  OLord!"  —  with  such-like  barbarous  ejacula- 
tions, cramming  all  the  while  as  if  he  would  choke. 

Ho-ti  trembled  in  every  joint  while  he  grasped  the  85 
abominable  thing,  wavering  whether  he  should  not  put 
his  son  to  death  for  an  unnatural  young  monster,  when 


LAMB  43  5 

the  crackling  scorching  his  fingers,  as  it  had  done  his 
son's,  and  applying  the  same  remedy  to  them,  he  in  his 
turn  tasted  some  of  its  flavor,  which,  make  what  sour  90 
mouths  he  would  for  a  pretence,  proved  not  altogether 
displeasing  to  him.  In  conclusion  (for  the  manuscript 
here  is  a  little  tedious),  both  father  and  son  fairly  sat 
down  to  the  mess,  and  never  left  off  till  they  had  de- 
spatched all  that  remained  of  the  Utter,  95 

Bo-bo  was  strictly  enjoined  not  to  let  the  secret  escape, 
for  the  neighbors  would  certainly  have  stoned  them  for 
a  couple  of  abominable  wretches,  who  could  think  of  im- 
proving upon  the  good  meat  which  God  had  sent  them. 
Nevertheless,  strange  stories  got  about.  It  was  observed  100 
that  Ho-ti's  cottage  was  burned  down  now  more  fre- 
quently than  ever.  Nothing  but  fires  from  this  time 
forward.  Some  would  break  out  in  broad  day,  others 
in  the  night-time.  As  often  as  the  sow  farrowed,  so 
sure  was  the  house  of  Ho-ti  to  be  in  a  blaze;  and  Ho-ti  105 
himself,  which  was  the  more  remarkable,  instead  of 
chastising  his  son,  seemed  to  grow  more  indulgent  to 
him  than  ever.  At  length  they  were  watched,  the  terrible 
mystery  discovered,  and  father  and  son  summoned  to 
take  their  trial  at  Pekin,  then  an  inconsiderable  assize  no 
town.  Evidence  was  given,  the  obnoxious  food  itself 
produced  in  court,  and  verdict  about  to  be  pronounced, 
when  the  foreman  of  the  jury  begged  that  some  of  the 
burned  pig,  of  which  the  culprits  stood  accused,  might 
be  handed  into  the  box.  He  handled  it,  and  they  all  115 
handled  it,  and  burning  their  fingers,  as  Bo-bo  and 
his  father  had  done  before  them,  and  nature  prompting 
to  each  of  them  the  same  remedy,  against  the  face  of  all 
the  facts,  and  the  clearest  charge  which  judge  had  ever 
given  —  to  the  surprise  of   the  whole  court,  townsfolk,  120 


436  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

strangers,  reporters,  and  all  present  —  without  leaving 
the  box,  or  any  manner  of  consultation  whatever,  they 
brought  in  a  simultaneous  verdict  of  Not  Guilty. 

The  judge,  who  was  a  shrewd  fellow,  winked  at  the 
manifest  iniquity  of  the  decision;  and  when  the  court  125 
was  dismissed  went  privily  and  bought  up  all  the  pigs 
that  could  be  had  fot  love  or  money.  In  a  few  days 
his  lordship's  town-house  was  observed  to  be  on  fire. 
The  thing  took  wing,  and  now  there  was  nothing  to  be 
seen  but  fire  in  every  direction;  fuel  and  pigs  grew  130 
enormously  dear  all  over  the  district.  The  insurance 
offices  one  and  all  shut  up  shop.  People  built  slighter 
and  slighter  every  day,  until  it  was  feared  that  the  very 
science  of  architecture  would  in  no  long  time  be  lost  to 
the  world.  Thus  this  custom  of  firing  houses  continued,  135 
till  in  process  of  time,  says  my  manuscript,  a  sage  arose, 
like  our  Locke,  who  made  a  discovery  that  the  flesh  of 
swine,  or  indeed  of  any  other  animal,  might  be  cooked 
{burnt,  as  they  called  it)  without  the  necessity  of  con- 
suming a  whole  house  to  dress  it.  Then  first  began  the  140 
rude  form  of  a  gridiron.  Roasting  by  the  string  or  spit 
came  in  a  century  or  two  later  —  I  forget  in  whose  dy- 
nasty. By  such  slow  degrees,  concludes  the  manuscript, 
do  the  most  useful,  and  seemingly  the  most  obvious, 
arts  make  their  way  among  mankind.  145 

Without  placing  too  implicit  faith  in  the  account 
above  given,  it  must  be  agreed  that  if  a  worthy  pretext 
for  so  dangerous  an  experiment  as  setting  houses  on  fire 
(especially  in  these  days)  could  be  assigned  in  favor  of 
any  culinary  object,  that  pretext  and  excuse  might  be  150 
found  in  Roast  Pig. 

Of  all  the  delicacies  in  the  whole  mundus  edihilis,  I 
will  maintain  it  to  be  the  most  delicate — princeps  ob- 


LAMB  437 

soniornm.  I  speak  not  of  your  gro\vn  porkers  —  things 
beween  pig  and  pork,  those  hobbydehoys  —  but  a  young  155 
and  tender  suckling,  under  a  moon  old,  guiltless  as  yet 
of  the  sty;  with  no  original  speck  of  the  amor  itnmun- 
ditice,  the  hereditary  failing  of  the  first  parent,  yet 
manifest;  his  voice  as  yet  not  broken,  but  something 
between  a  childish  treble  and  a  grumble,  the  mild  fore- 160 
runner,  ox  prceludium,  of  a  grunt. 

He  must  be  roasted.  I  am  not  ignorant  that  our  ances- 
tors ate  them  seethed,  or  boiled,  but  what  a  sacrifice  of 
the  exterior  tegument ! 

There  is  no  flavor  comparable,  I  will  contend,  to  that  165 
of   the   crisp,    tawny,   well-watched,    not   over-roasted, 
crackling,  as  it  is  well  called :  the  very  teeth  are  invited 
to  their  share  of  the  pleasure  at  this  banquet  in  over- 
coming the  coy,  brittle  resistance,   with  the  adhesive 
oleaginous  —  O,  call  it  not  fat!  but  an  indefinable  sweet- 170 
ness  growing  up  to  it,  the  tender  blossoming  of  fat,  fat 
cropped  in  the  bud,  taken  in  the  shoot,  in  the  first  in- 
nocence, the  cream  and  quintessence  of  the  child-pig's 
yet  pure  food  —  the  lean,  no  lean,  but  a  kind  of  animal 
manna  —  or,  rather,  fat  and  lean  (if  it  must  be  so)  so  175 
blended  and  running  into  each  other,  that  both  together 
make  but  one  ambrosian  result,  or  common  substance. 

Behold  him  while  he  is  "doing"  —  it  seemeth  rather 
a  refreshing  warmth  than  a  scorching  heat,  that  he  is  so 
passive  to.  How  equably  he  twirleth  round  the  string !  180 
Now  he  is  just  done.  To  see  the  extreme  sensibility  of 
that  tender  age !  he  hath  wept  out  his  pretty  eyes  — 
radiant  jellies — shooting  stars.  See  him  in  the  dish,  his 
second  cradle,  how  meek  he  lieth!  —  wouldst  thou  have 
had  this  innocence  grow  up  to  the  grossness  and  indocil- 185 
ity  which  too  often  accompany  maturer  swinehood  ?  .  .  . 


WILLIAM    HAZLITT 

(1778-1830) 

A   FAREWELL   TO   ESSAY-WRITING 

A  Reminiscence 

"  This  life  is  best,  if  quiet  life  is  best. 

Food,  warmth,  sleep,  and  a  book;  these  are  all  I  at 
present  ask  —  the  ultima  Thule  of  my  wandering  desires. 
Do  you  not  then  wish  for 

"  A  friend  in  your  retreat, 
Whom  you  may  whisper,  solitude  is  sweet  ?  5 

Expected,  well  enough:  —  gone,  still  better.  Such  at- 
tractions are  strengthened  by  distance.  Nor  a  mistress? 
"  Beautiful  mask !  I  know  thee !  "  When  I  can  judge 
of  the  heart  from  the  face,  of  the  thoughts  from  the  lips, 
I  may  again  trust  myself.  Instead  of  these  give  me  the  10 
robin  red-breast,  pecking  the  crumbs  at  the  door,  or 
warbling  on  the  leafless  spray,  the  same  glancing  form 
that  has  followed  me  wherever  I  have  been,  and  "  done 
its  spiriting  gently;  "  or  the  rich  notes  of  the  thrush  that 
startle  the  ear  of  winter,  and  seem  to  have  drunk  up  15 
the  fulj  draught  of  joy  from  the  very  sense  of  contrast. 
To  these  I  adhere,  and  am  faithful,  for  they  are  true  to 
me ;  and,  dear  in  themselves,  are  dearer  for  the  sake  of 
what  is  departed,  leading  me  back  (by  the  hand)  to  that 
dreaming  world,  in  the  innocence  of  which  they  sat  and  20 

438 


HAZLITT  439 

made  sweet  music,  waking  the  promise  of  future  years, 
and  answered  by  the  eager  throbbings  of  my  own  breast. 
But  now  "the  credulous  hope  of  mutual  minds  is  o'er," 
and  I  turn  back  from  the  world  that  has  deceived  me, 
to  nature  that  lent  it  a  false  beauty,  and  that  keeps  up  25 
the  illusion  of  the  past.  As  I  quaff  my  libations  of  tea 
in  a  morning,  I  love  to  watch  the  clouds  sailing  from 
the  west,  and  fancy  that  "  the  spring  comes  slowly  up  this 
way."  In  this  hope,  while  "fields  are  dank  and  ways 
are  mire,"  I  follow  the  same  direction  to  a  neighbouring  30 
wood,  where,  having  gained  the  dry,  level  greensward,  I 
can  see  my  way  for  a  mile  before  me,  closed  in  on  each 
side  by  copse-wood,  and  ending  in  a  point  of  light  more 
or  less  brilliant,  as  the  day  is  bright  or  cloudy.  What 
a  walk  is  this  to  me !  I  have  no  need  of  book  or  com-  35 
panion  —  the  days,  the  hours,  the  thoughts  of  my  youth 
are  at  my  side,  and  blend  with  the  air  that  fans  my 
cheek.  Here  I  can  saunter  for  hours,  bending  my  eye 
forward,  stopping  and  turning  to  look  back,  thinking  to 
strike  off  into  some  less  trodden  path,  yet  hesitating  to  4c 
quit  the  one  I  am  in,  afraid  to  snap  the  brittle  threads 
of  memory,  I  remark  the  shining  trunks  and  slender 
branches  of  the  birch  trees,  waving  in  the  idle  breeze; 
or  a  pheasant  springs  up  on  whirring  wing;  or  I  recall 
the  spot  where  I  once  found  a  wood-pigeon  at  the  foot  of  45 
a  tree,  weltering  in  its  gore,  and  think  how  many  seasons 
have  flown  since  "it  left  its  little  life  in  air."  Dates, 
names,  faces  come  back  —  to  what  purpose  ?  Or  why 
think  of  them  now?  Or  rather  why  not  think  of  them 
oftener?  We  walk  through  life,  as  through  a  narrow  5c 
path,  with  a  thin  curtain  drawn  around  it;  behind  are 
ranged  rich  portraits,  airy  harps  are  strung  —  yet  we  will 
not  stretch  forth  our  hands  and  lift  aside  the  veil,  to 


440  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

catch  glimpses  of  the  one,  or  sweep  the  chords  of  the 
other.     As  in  a  theatre,  when  the  old-fashioned  green  55 
curtain  drew  up,   groups  of  figures,   fantastic  dresses, 
laughing  faces,  rich  banquets,  stately  columns,  gleaming 
vistas  appeared  beyond;  so  we  have  only  at  any  time  to 
"peep  through  the  blanket  of  the  past,"  to  possess  our- 
selves at  once  of  all  that  has  regaled  our  senses,  that  is  60 
stored  up  in  our  memory,  that  has  struck  our  fancy, 
that  has  pierced  our  hearts:  —  yet  to  all  this  we  are  in- 
different, insensible,  and  seem  intent  only  on  the  pres- 
ent vexation,  the  future  disappointment.     If  there  is  a 
Titian  hanging  up  in  the  room  with  me,  I  scarcely  re-  65 
gard  it:  how  then  should  I  be  expected  to  strain  the 
mental  eye  so  far,  or  to  throw  down,  by  the  magic  spells 
of  the  will,  the  stone-walls  that  enclose  it  in  the  Louvre? 
There  is  one  head  there  of  which  I  have  often  thought, 
when  looking  at  it,  that  nothing  should  ever  disturb  me  70 
again,  and  I  would  become  the  character  it  represents 
—  such  perfect  calmness  and  self-possession  reigns  in  it! 
Why  do  I  not  hang  an  image  of  this  in  some  dusky  cor- 
ner of  my  brain,  and  turn  an  eye  upon  it  ever  and  anon, 
as  I  have  need  of  some  such  talisman  to  calm  my  troubled  75 
thoughts?     The  attempt  is  fruitless,  if  not  natural;  or, 
like  that  of  the  French,  to  hang  garlands  on  the  grave 
and  to  conjure  back  the  dead  by  miniature  pictures  of 
them  while  living!     It  is  only  some  actual  coincidence 
or   local   association   that  tends,   without  violence,   to  80 
"open  all  the  cells  where  memory  slept."     I  can  easily, 
by  stooping  over  the  long-sprent  grass  and  clay  cold 
clod,  recall  the  tufts  of  primroses,  or  purple  hyacinths, 
that  formerly  grew  on  the  same  spot,  and  cover  the  bushes 
with  leaves  and  singing-birds,   as  they  were  eighteen  85 
summers  ago;  or  prolonging  my  walk  and  hearing  the 


HAZLITT  441 

sighing  gale  rustle  through  a  tall,  straight  wood  at  the 
end  of  it,  can  fancy  that  I  distinguish  the  cry  of  hounds, 
and  the  fatal  group  issuing  from  it,  as  in  the  tale  of 
Theodore  and  Honoria.  A  moaning  gust  of  wind  aids  90 
the  belief;  I  look  once  more  to  see  whether  the  trees 
before  me  answer  to  the  idea  of  the  horror-stricken 
grove,  and  an  air-built  city  towers  over  their  grey  tops. 

"  Of  all  the  cities  in  Romanian  lands, 
The  chief  and  most  renovvn'd  Ravenna  stands."  95 

I  return  home  resolved  to  read  the  entire  poem  through, 
and,  after  dinner,  drawing  my  chair  to  the  fire,  and  hold- 
ing a  small  print  close  to  my  eyes,  launch  into  the  full 
tide  of  Dryden's  couplets  (a  stream  of  sound),  compar- 
ing his  didactic  and  descriptive  pomp  with  the  simple  100 
pathos  and  picturesque  truth  of  Boccaccio's  story,  and 
tasting  with  a  pleasure,  which  none  but  an  habitual 
reader  can  feel,  some  quaint  examples  of  pronunciation 
in  this  accomplished  versifier. 

"  Which  when  Honoria  view'd,  105 

The  fresh  impulse  her  former  fright  renew'd." 

"  And  made  th'  insult,  which  in  his  grief  appears, 
The  means  to  mourn  thee  with  my  pious  tears." 

These  trifling  instances  of  the  wavering  and  unsettled 
state  of  the  language  give  double  effect  to  the  firm  and  no 
stately  march  of  the  verse,  and  make  me  dwell  with  a 
sort  of  tender  interest  on  the  difficulties  and  doubts  of 
an  earlier  period  of  literature.  They  pronounced  words 
then  in  a  manner  which  we  should  laugh  at  now;  and 
they  wrote  verse  in  a  manner  which  we  can  do  anything  115 
but  laugh  at.  The  pride  of  a  new  acquisition  seems  to 
give  fresh  confidence  to  it;  to  impel  the  rolling  syllables 


442  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

through  the  moulds  provided  for  them,  and  to  overflow 
the  envious  bounds  of  rhyme  into  time-honoured  triplets. 

What  sometimes  surprises  me  in  looking  back  to  the  120 
past,  is,  with  the  exception  already  stated,  to  find  myself 
so  little  changed  in  the  time.     The  same  images  and 
trains  of  thoughts  stick  by  me :  I  have  the  same  tastes, 
likings,  sentiments,  and  wishes  that  I  had  then.     One 
great  ground  of  confidence  and  support  has,  indeed,  125 
been  struck  from  under  my  feet;  but  I  have  made  it  up 
to   myself   by   proportionable   pertinacity   of   opinion. 
The  success  of  the  great  cause,  to  which  I  had  vowed 
myself,  was  to  me  more  than  all  the  world :  I  had  a 
strength  in  its  strength,  a  resource  which  I  knew  not  of,  130 
till  it  failed  me  for  the  second  time. 

"  Fall'n  was  Glenartny's  stately  tree ! 
Oh !  ne'er  to  see  Lord  Ronald  more  ! " 


ENGLISH   HUMOUR 

Now  it  appears  to  me  that  the  English  are  (or  were) 
just  at  that  mean  point  between  intelligence  and  obtuse- 
ness  which  must  produce  the  most  abundant  and  happiest 
crop  of  humour.  Absurdity  and  singularity  glide  over 
the  French  mind  without  jarring  or  jostling  with  it;  or 
they  evaporate  in  levity;  with  the  Italians  they  are  lost 
in  indolence  or  pleasure.  The  ludicrous  takes  hold  of 
the  English  imagination,  and  clings  to  it  with  all  its 
ramifications.  We  resent  any  difference  or  peculiarity 
of  appearance  at  first,  and  yet,  having  not  much  malice 
at  our  hearts,  we  are  glad  to  turn  it  into  a  jest  —  we  are 
liable  to  be  offended,  and  as  willing  to  be  pleased  — 


HAZLITT  443 

struck  with  oddity  from  not  knowing  what  to  make  of  it, 
we  wonder  and  burst  out  a  laughing  at  the  eccentricity 
of  others,  while  we  follow  our  own  bent  from  wilfulness   15 
or  simplicity,  and  thus  afford  them,  in  our  turn,  matter 
for  the  indulgence  of  the  comic  vein.     It  is  possible 
that  a  greater  refinement  of  manners  may  give  birth  to 
finer  distinctions  of  satire  and  a  nicer  tact  for  the  ridicu- 
lous; but  our  insular  situation  and  character  are,  I  should  20 
say,  most  likely  to  foster,  as  they  have  in  fact  fostered, 
the  great  quantity  of  natural  and  striking  humour,  in 
spite  of  our  plodding  tenaciousness,  and  want  both  of 
gaiety  and  quickness  of  perception.     A  set  of  raw  re- 
cruits with  their  awkward  movements  and   unbending  25 
joints  are  laughable  enough;  but  they  cease  to  be  so 
when  they  have  once  been  drilled  into  discipline  and 
uniformity.     So  it  is  with  nations  that  lose  their  angular 
points  and  grotesque  qualities  with  education  and  inter- 
course; but  it  is  in  a  mixed  state  of  manners  that  comic  30 
humour  chiefly  flourishes,  for,  in  order  that  the  drollery 
may  not  be  lost,  we  must  have  spectators  of  the  pass- 
ing scene  who  are  able  to  appreciate  and  embody  its 
most  remarkable   features  —  wits  as  well    as   butts   for 
ridicule.      I  shall  mention  two  names  in  this  depart-  35 
ment  which  may  serve  to  redeem  the  national  character 
from  absolute  dulness  and  solemn  pretence  —  Fielding 
and  Hogarth.   .   .   .     Lord  BjTon  was  in  the  habit  of 
railing  at  the  spirit  of  our  good  old  comedy,  and   of 
abusing  Shakespeare's  Clowns  and  Fools,  which  he  said  40 
the  refinement  of  the  French  and  Italian  stage  would  not 
endure,  and  which  only  our  grossness  and  puerile  taste 
could  tolerate.     In  this  I  agree  with  him;  and  it  is  pat 
to  my  purpose.     I  flatter  myself  that  we  are  almost  the 
only  people  who  understand  and  relish  nonsense.     We  45 


444  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARXOLD 

are  not  "merry  and  wise,"  but  indulge  our  mirth  to 
excess  and  folly.  When  we  trifle,  we  trifle  in  good 
earnest;  and  having  once  relaxed  our  hold  of  the  helm, 
drift  idly  down  the  stream,  and,  delighted  with  the 
change,  are  tossed  about  "  by  every  little  breath "  of  50 
whim  or  caprice, 

"  That  under  heaven  is  blown." 

All  we  then  want  is  to  proclaim  a  truce  with  reason, 
and  to  be  pleased  with  as  little  expense  of  thought  or 
pretension  to  wisdom  as  possible.     This  licensed  fooling  55 
is  carried  to  its  very  utmost  length  in  Shakespeare,  and 
in  some  other  of  our  elder  dramatists,  without  perhaps 
sufficient  warrant  or  the   same   excuse.     Nothing   can 
justify   this   extreme  relaxation   but   extreme   tension. 
Shakespeare's  trifling  does  indeed  tread  upon  the  very  60 
borders  of  vacancy;  his  meaning  often  hangs  by  the 
very  slenderest  threads.     For  this  he  might  be  blamed 
if  it  did  not  take  away  our  breath  to  follow  his  eagle 
flights,  or  if  he  did  not  at  other  times  make  the  cordage 
of  our  hearts  crack.     After  our  heads  ache  with  think-  65 
ing,  it  is  fair  to  play  the  fool.     The  clowns  were  as 
proper  an  appendage  to  the  gravity  of  our  antique  lit- 
erature as  fools  and  dwarfs  were  to  the  stately  dignity 
of   courts   and  noble  houses  in   former  days.     Of  all 
people,  they  have  the  best  right  to  claim  a  total  exemp-  70 
tion  from    rules  and   rigid   formality,  who,  when  they 
have  anything  of  importance  to  do,  set  about  it  with 
the  greatest  earnestness  and  perseverance,  and  are  gen- 
erally grave  and  sober  to  a  proverb.     Swift,  who  wrote 
more   idle  or  nonsense  verses  than  any  man,  was  the  75 
severest  of  moralists;  and  his  feelings  and  observations 
morbidly  acute. 


LEIGH    HUNT 

(1784- 1859) 

TO   THE  GRASSHOPPER   AND   THE   CRICKET 

Green  little  vaulter  in  the  suniiy  grass, 

Catching  your  heart  up  at  the  feel  of  June, 

Sole  voice  that's  heard  amidst  the  lazy  noon, 

When  even  the  bees  lag  at  the  summoning  brass; 

And  you,  warm  little  housekeeper,  who  class  1 

With  those  who  think  the  candles  come  too  soon, 

Loving  the  fire,  and  with  your  tricksome  tune 

Nick  the  glad  silent  moments  as  they  pass; 

O  sweet  and  tiny  cousins,  that  belong. 

One  to  the  fields,  the  other  to  the  hearth,  k 

Both  have  your  sunshine ;  both,  though  small,  are  strong 

At  your  clear  hearts;  and  both  seem  given  to  earth 

To  ring  in  thoughtful  ears  this  natural  song  — 

In  doors  and  out,  summer  and  winter,  Mirth. 


ON   THE   REALITIES   OF   IMAGINATION 

There  is  not  a  more  unthinking  way  of  talking  than 
to  say  such  and  such  pains  and  pleasures  are  only  imag- 
inary, and  therefore  to  be  got  rid  of  or  undervalued  ac- 
cordingly. There  is  nothing  imaginary  in  the  common 
acceptation  of  the  word.     The  logic  of  Moses  in  the 

445 


446  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

Vicar  of  Wakefield  is  good  argument  here :  "  Whatever 
is,  is."     Whatever  touches  us,  whatever  moves  us,  does 
touch  and  does  move  us.     We  recognise  the  reality  of  it, 
as  we  do  that  of  a  hand  in  the  dark.     We  might  as  well 
say  that  a  sight  which  makes  us  laugh,  or  a  blow  which   lo 
brings  tears  into  our  eyes,  is  imaginary,  as  that  anything 
else  is  imaginary  which  makes  us  laugh  or  weep.     We 
can  only  judge  of  things  by  their  effects.     Our  percep- 
tion constantly  deceives  us,  in  things  with  which  we  sup- 
pose ourselves  perfectly  conversant;  but  our  reception   15 
of  their  effect  is  a  different  matter.     Whether  we  are 
materialists  or  immaterialists,  whether  things  be  about 
us  or  within  us,  whether  we  think  the  sun  is  a  substance, 
or  only  the  image  of  a  divine  thought,  an  idea,  a  thing 
imaginary,  we  are  equally  agreed  as  to  the  notion  of  its  20 
warmth.     But  on  the  other  hand,  as  this  warmth  is  felt 
differently  by  different  temperaments,  so  what  we  call 
imaginary  things  affect  different  minds.     What  we  have 
to  do  is  not  to  deny  their  effect,  because  we  do  not  feel 
in  the  same  proportion,  or  whether  we  even  feel  it  at  25 
all;  but  to  see  whether  our  neighbours  may  not  be  moved. 
If  they  are,  there  is,  to  all  intents  and  purposes,  a  mov- 
ing cause.     But  we  do  not  see  it?     No;  —  neither  per- 
haps do  they.     They  only  feel  it;  they  are  only  sentient, 
—  a  word  which  implies  the  sight  given  to  the  imagina-  30 
tion  by  the  feelings.     But  what  do  you  mean,  we  may 
ask  in  return,  by  seeing?    Some  rays  of  light  come  in 
contact  with  the  eye;  they  bring  a  sensation  to  it;  in  a 
word,  they  touch   it;  and  the   impression  left  by  this 
touch  we  call  sight.     How  far  does  this  differ  in  effect  35 
from  the  impression  left  by  any  other  touch,  however 
mysterious?     An  ox  knocked  down  by  a  butcher,  and  a 
man  knocked  down  by  a  fit  of  apoplexy,  equally  feel 


HUNT  447 

themselves  compelled  to  drop.  The  tickling  of  a  straw 
and  of  a  comedy  equally  move  the  muscles  about  the  40 
mouth.  The  look  of  a  beloved  eye  will  so  thrill  the 
frame,  that  old  philosophers  have  had  recourse  to  a 
doctrine  of  beams  and  radiant  particles  flying  from  one 
sight  to  another.  In  fine,  what  is  contact  itself,  and 
why  does  it  affect  us?  There  is  no  one  cause  more  45 
mysterious  than  another,  if  we  look  into  it. 

Nor  does  the  question  concern  us  like  moral  causes. 
We  may  be  content  to  know  the  earth  by  its  fruits;  but 
how  to  increase  and  improve  them  is  a  more  attractive 
study.    If,  instead  of  saying  that  the  causes  which  moved  50 
in  us  this  or  that  pain  or  pleasure  were  imaginary,  people 
were  to  say  that  the  causes  themselves  were  removable, 
they  would  be  nearer  the  truth.     When  a  stone  trips  us 
up,  we  do  not  fall  to  disputing  its  existence :  we  put  it 
out  of  the  way.     In  like  manner,  when  we  suffer  from   55 
what  is  called  an  imaginary  pain,  our  business  is  not  to 
canvass  the  reality  of  it.     Whether  there  is  any  cause  or 
not  in  that  or  any  other  perception,  or  whether  every- 
thing consists  not  in  what  is  called  effect,  it  is  sufficient 
for  tis  that  the  effect  is  real.     Our  sole  business  is  to  re-  60 
move  those  second  causes,  which  always  accompany  the 
original  idea.     As  in  deliriums,  for  instance,  it  would 
be  idle  to  go  about  persuading  the  patient  that  he  did 
not  behold  the  figures  he   says   he   does.     He   might 
reasonably  ask  us,  if  he  could,  how  we  know  anything  65 
about  the  matter;  or  how  we  can  be  sure  that  in  the 
infinite  wonders  of  the  universe  certain  realities  may 
not  become  apparent  to  certain  eyes,  whether  diseased 
or  not.     Our  business  would  be  to  put  him  into  that 
state  of  health  in  which  human  beings  are  not  diverted  70 
from  their  offices  and  comforts  by  a  liability  to  such 


448  FHOM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

imaginations.  The  best  reply  to  his  question  would  be, 
that  such  a  morbidity  is  clearly  no  more  a  fit  state  for  a 
human  being  than  a  disarranged  or  incomplete  state  of 
works  is  for  a  watch;  and  that  seeing  the  general  ten-  75 
dency  of  nature  to  this  completeness  or  state  of  comfort, 
we  naturally  conclude  that  the  imaginations  in  question, 
whether  substantial  or  not,  are  at  least  not  of  the  same 
lasting  or  prevailing  description. 

We  do  not  profess  metaphysics.     We  are  indeed  so  80 
little  conversant  with  the  masters  of  that  art,  that  we 
are  never  sure  whether  we  are  using  even  its  proper 
terms.     All  that  we  may  know  on  the  subject  comes  to 
us  from  some  reflection  and  some  experience;  and  this 
all  may  be  so  little  as  to  make  a  metaphysician  smile;  85 
which,  if  he  be  a  true  one,  he  will  do  good-naturedly. 
The  pretender  will  take  occasion,  from  our  very  confes- 
sion, to  say  that  we  know  nothing.     Our  faculty,  such  as 
it  is,  is  rather  instinctive  than  reasoning;  rather  physical 
than    metaphysical;    rather   sentient  because   it   loves  90 
much,  than  because  it  knows  much;  rather  calculated 
by  a  certain  retention  of  boyhood,  and  by  its  wanderings 
in  the  green  places  of  thought,  to  light  upon  a  piece  of 
the  old  golden  world,  than  to  tire  ourselves,  and  con- 
clude  it  unattainable,  by  too  wide  and  scientific  a  95 
search.     We  pretend  to  see  farther  than  none  but  the 
worldly  and   the   malignant.     And  yet  those  who  see 
farther  may  not  see  so  well.     We  do  not  blind  our  eyes 
with  looking  upon  the  sun  in  the  heavens.     We  believe 
it  to  be  there,  but  we  find   its  light  upon  earth  also;  100 
and  we  would  lead  humanity,  if  we  could,  out  of  misery 
and  coldness  into  the  shine  of  it.     Pain  might  still  be 
there;  must  be  so,  as  long  as  we  are  mortal; 

"  For  oft  we  still  must  weep,  since  we  are  human :  " 


HUNT  449 

but  it  should  be  pain  for  the  sake  of  others,  which  is  105 
noble;    not  unnecessary  pain  inflicted  by  or  upon  them, 
which  it  is  absurd  not  to  remove.     The  very  pains  of 
mankind  struggle  towards  pleasures;  and  such  pains  as 
are  proper  for  them  have  this  inevitable  accompaniment 
of  true  humanity,  —  that  they  cannot  but  realise  a  certain  no 
gentleness  of  enjoyment.     Thus  the  true  bearer  of  pain 
would  come  round  to  us;  and  he  would  not  grudge  us  a 
share  of  his  burden,  though  in  taking  from  his  trouble 
it  might  diminish  his  pride.     Pride  is  but  a  bad  pleas- 
ure at  the  expense  of  others.     The  great  object  of  hu- 115 
manity  is  to  enrich  everybody.     If  it  is  a  task  destined 
not  to  succeed,  it  is  a  good  one  from  its  very  nature; 
and  fulfils  at  least  a  glad  destiny  of  its  own.     To  look 
upon  it  austerely  is  in  reality  the  reverse  of  austerity. 
It  is  only  such  an  impatience  of  the  want  of  pleasure  as  120 
leads  us  to  grudge  it  in  others;  and  this  impatience 
itself,  if  the  sufferer  knew  how  to  use  it,  is  but  another 
impulse,  in  the  general  yearning,  towards  an  equal  wealth 
of  enjoyment. 

But  we  shall  be  getting  into  other  discussions.  — The  125 
ground-work  of  all  happiness  is  health.     Take  care  of 
this  ground;  and  the  doleful  imaginations  that  come  to 
warn  us  against  its  abuse  will  avoid  it.     Take  care  of 
this  ground,  and  let  as  many  glad  imaginations  throng  to 
it  as  possible.     Read  the  magical  works  of  the  poets,  130 
and  they  will  come.     If  you  doubt  their  existence,  ask 
yourself  whether  you  feel  pleasure  at  the  idea  of  them; 
whether  you  are  moved  into  delicious  smiles,  or  tears  as 
delicious.     If  you  are,  the  result  is  the  same  to  you, 
whether  they  exist  or  not.     It  is  not  mere  words  to  say  135 
that  he  who  goes  through  a  rich  man's  park,  and  sees 
things  in  it  which  never  bless  the  mental  eyesight  of  the 


450  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

possessor,  is  richer  than  he.     He  is  richer.     More  re- 
sults of  pleasure  come  home  to  him.     The  ground  is 
actually  more  fertile  to  him :  the  place  haunted  with  140 
finer  shapes.     He  has  more  servants  to  come  at  his  call, 
and  administer  to  him  with  full  hands.     Knowledge, 
sympathy,  imagination,  are  all  divining-rods,  with  which 
he  discovers  treasure.     Let  a  painter  go  through  the 
grounds,  and  he  will  see  not  only  the  general  colours  of  145 
green  and  brown,  but  their  combinations  and  contrasts, 
and  the  modes  in  which  they  might  again  be  combined 
and  contrasted.     He  will  also  put  figures  in  the  land- 
scape if  there  are  none  there,  flocks  and  herds,  or  a 
solitary  spectator,  or  Venus  lying  with  her  white  body  150 
among  the  violets  and  primroses.     Let  a  musician  go 
through,  and  he  will  hear  "differences  discreet "  in  the 
notes  of  the  birds  and  the  lapsing  of  the  water-fall.     He 
will  fancy  a  serenade  of  wind  instruments  in  the  open 
air  at  a  lady's  window,  with  a  voice  rising  through  it;  155 
or  the  horn  of  the  hunter;   or  the  musical  cry  of  the 

hounds, 

"  Matched  in  mouth  like  bells, 
Each  under  each  ;  " 

or  a  solitary  voice  in  a  bower,  singing  for  an  expected  160 
lover;  or  the  chapel  organ,  waking  up  like  the  fountain 
of  the  winds.  Let  a  poet  go  through  the  grounds  and  he 
will  heighten  and  increase  all  these  sounds  and  images. 
He  will  bring  the  colours  from  heaven,  and  put  an 
unearthly  meaning  into  the  voice.  He  will  have  165 
stories  of  the  sylvan  inhabitants;  will  shift  the  popu- 
lation through  infinite  varieties;  will  put  a  sentiment 
upon  every  sight  and  sound;  will  be  human,  romantic, 
supernatural;  will  make  all  nature  send  tribute  into  that 
spot.  170 


HUNT  451 

We  may  say  of  the  love  of  nature  what  Shakespeare 
says  of  another  love,  that  it 

"  Adds  a  precious  seeing  to  the  eye." 

And  we  may  say  also,  upon  the  like  principle,  that  it 
adds  a  precious  hearing  to  the  ear.  This  and  imagina-  175 
tion,  which  ever  follows  upon  it,  are  the  two  purifiers  of 
our  sense,  which  rescue  us  from  the  deafening  babble  of 
common  cares,  and  enable  us  to  hear  all  the  affectionate 
voices  of  earth  and  heaven.  The  starry  orbs,  lapsing 
about  in  their  smooth  and  sparkling  dance,  sing  to  us.  180 
The  brooks  talk  to  us  of  solitude.  The  birds  are  the 
animal  spirits  of  nature,  carolling  in  the  air,  like  a  care- 
less lass. 

"  The  gentle  gales, 

Fanning  their  odoriferous  wings,  dispense  185 

Native  perfumes;   and  whisper  whence  they  stole 
Those  balmy  spoils."  —  Paradise  Lost,  book  iv. 

The  poets  are  called  creators,  because  with  their  magical 
words  they  bring  forth  to  our  eyesight  the  abundant 
images  and  beauties  of  creation.  They  put  them  there,  190 
if  the  reader  pleases;  and  so  are  literally  creators.  But 
whether  put  there  or  discovered,  whether  created  or  in- 
vented (for  invention  means  nothing  but  finding  out), 
there  they  are.  If  they  touch  us,  they  exist  to  as  much 
purpose  as  anything  else  which  touches  us.  If  a  passage  195 
in  King  Lear  brings  the  tears  into  our  eyes,  it  is  real 
as  the  touch  of  a  sorrowful  hand.  If  the  flow  of  a  song 
of  Anacreon's  intoxicates  us,  it  is  as  true  to  a  pulse 
within  us  as  the  wine  he  drank.  We  hear  not  their 
sounds  with  ears,  nor  see  their  sights  with  eyes;  but  we  200 
hear  and  see  both  so  truly,  that  we  are  moved  with  pleas- 
ure; and  the  advantage,  nay  even  the  test,  of  seeing  and 
hearing,  at  any  time,  is  not  in  the  seeing  and  hearing. 


452  FROM   CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

but  in  the  ideas  we  realise,  and  the  pleasure  we  derive. 
Intellectual  objects,  therefore,  inasmuch  as  they  come  205 
home  to  us,  are  as  true  a  part  of  the  stock  of  nature  as 
visible  ones;  and  they  are  infinitely  more  abundant. 
Between  the  tree  of  a  country  clown  and  the  tree  of  a 
Milton  or  Spenser,  what  a  difference  in  point  of  produc- 
tiveness !  Bet^veen  the  plodding  of  a  sexton  through  a  210 
church-yard  and  the  walk  of  a  Gray,  what  a  difference ! 
What  a  difference  between  the  Bermudas  of  a  ship- 
builder and  the  Bermoothes  of  Shakespeare !  the  isle 

"  Full  of  noises, 
Sounds,  and  sweet  airs,  that  give  delight,  and  hurt  not ; "  215 

the  isle  of  elves  and  fairies,  that  chased  the  tide  to  and 
fro  on  the  sea-shore;  of  coral-bones  and  the  knell  of 
sea-nymphs;  of  spirits  dancing  on  the  sands,  and  sing- 
ing amidst  the  hushes  of  the  wind;  of  Caliban,  whose 
brute  nature  enchantment  had  made  poetical;  of  Ariel,  220 
who  lay  in  cowslip  bells,  and  rode  upon  the  bat;  of 
Miranda,  who  wept  when  she  saw  Ferdinand  work  so 
hard,  and  begged  him  to  let  her  help;  telling  him, 

"  I  am  your  wife,  if  you  will  marry  me ; 
If  not,  I'll  die  your  maid.     To  be  your  fellow  225 

You  may  deny  me;   but  I'll  be  your  servant, 
Whether  you  will  or  no." 

Such  are  the  discoveries  which  the  poets  make  for  us; 
worlds  to  which  that  of  Columbus  was  but  a  handful  of 
brute  matter.  America  began  to  be  richer  for  us  the  230 
other  day,  when  Humboldt  came  back  and  told  us  of  its 
luxuriant  and  gigantic  vegetation;  of  the  myriads  of 
shooting  lights,  which  revel  at  evening  in  the  southern 
sky;  and  of  that  grand  constellation,  at  which  Dante 
seems  to  have  made  so  remarkable  a  guess  {Purgatorio,  235 
cant,  i.,  v.  22).     The  natural  warmth  of  the  Mexican 


HUNT  453 

and  Peruvian  genius,  set  free  from  depotism,  will  soon 
do  all  the  rest  for  it;  awaken  the  sleeping  riches  of  its 
eyesight,  and  call  forth  the  glad  music  of  its  affections. 

Imagination   enriches   everything.      A  great   library  240 
contains  not  only  books,  but 

"  The  assembled  souls  of  all  that  men  held  wise." 

—  Da\'enant. 

The  moon  is  Homer's  and  Shakespeare's  moon,  as  well 
as  the  one  we  look  at.  The  sun  comes  out  of  his  cham-  245 
ber  in  the  east,  with  a  sparkling  eye,  "rejoicing  like  a 
bridegroom."  The  commonest  thing  becomes  like 
Aaron's  rod,  that  budded.  Pope  called  up  the  spirits 
of  the  Cabala  to  wait  upon  a  lock  of  hair,  and  justly 
gave  it  the  honours  of  a  constellation;  for  he  has  hung  250 
it,  sparkling  for  ever  in  the  eyes  of  posterity.  A  com- 
mon meadow  is  a  sorry  thing  to  a  ditcher  or  a  coxcomb; 
but  by  the  help  of  its  dues  from  imagination  and  the  love 
of  nature,  the  grass  brightens  for  us,  the  air  soothes  us, 
we  feel  as  we  did  in  the  daisied  hours  of  childhood.  Its  255 
verdures,  its  sheep,  its  hedge-row  elms,  —  all  these,  and 
all  else  which  sight,  and  sound,  and  associations  can 
give  it,  are  made  to  furnish  a  treasure  of  pleasant  thoughts. 
Even  brick  and  mortar  are  vivified,  as  of  old,  at  the  harp 
of  Orpheus.  A  metropolis  becomes  no  longer  a  mere  260 
collection  of  houses  or  of  trades.  It  puts  on  all  the 
grandeur  of  its  history,  and  its  literature;  its  towers,  and 
rivers;  its  art,  and  jewellery,  and  foreign  wealth;  its 
multitude  of  human  beings  all  intent  upon  excitement, 
wise  or  yet  to  learn;  the  huge  and  sullen  dignity  of  its  265 
canopy  of  smoke  by  day;  the  wide  gleam  upwards  of  its 
lighted  lustre  at  night-time;  and  the  noise  of  its  many 
chariots,  heard  at  the  same  hour,  when  the  wind  sets 
gently  towards  some  quiet  suburb. 


THOMAS    DE   QUINCEY 

(1785-1859) 

ON  THE  KNOCKING  AT  THE  GATE  IN  MACBETH 

From  my  boyish  days  I  had  always  felt  a  great  per- 
plexity on  one  point  in  Macbeth.  It  was  this:  the 
knocking  at  the  gate  which  succeeds  to  the  murder  of 
Duncan  produced  to  my  feelings  an  effect  for  which  I 
never  could  account.  The  effect  was  that  it  reflected  5 
back  upon  the  murder  a  peculiar  awfulness  and  a  depth 
of  solemnity;  yet,  however  I  endeavored  with  my  under- 
standing to  comprehend  this,  for  many  years  I  could 
never  see  why  it  should  produce  such  an  effect. 

Here  I  pause  for  one  moment  to  exhort  the  reader  10 
never  to  pay  any  attention  to  his  understanding  when  it 
stands  in  opposition  to  any  other  faculty  of  his  mind. 
The  mere  understanding,  however  useful,  is  the  meanest 
faculty  in  the  human  mind,  and  the  most  to  be  distrusted; 
and  yet  the  great  majority  of  people  trust  nothing  else;   15 
which  may  do  for  ordinary  life,  but  not  for  philosophical 
purposes.     Of  this,  out  of  ten  thousand  instances  that 
I  might  produce,  I  will  cite  one.     Ask  any  person  what- 
soever, who  is  not  previously  prepared  for  the  demand 
by  a  knowledge  of  perspective,  to  draw  in  the  rudest  way  20 
the  commonest  appearance  which  depends  upon  the  law 
of  that  science;  as,  for  instance,  to  represent  the  effect 
of  two  walls  standing  at  right  angles  to  each  other,  or 
the  appearance  of  the  houses  on  each  side  of  a  street, 

454 


DE    QUINCE Y  455 

as  seen  by  a  person  looking  down  the  street  from  one  25 
extremity.  Now,  in  all  cases,  unless  the  person  has  hap- 
pened to  observe  in  pictures  how  it  is  that  artists  pro- 
duce these  effects,  he  will  be  utterly  incapable  to  make 
the  smallest  approximation  to  it.  Yet  why?  For  he 
has  actually  seen  the  effect  every  day  of  his  life.  The  30 
reason  is  —  that  he  allows  his  understanding  to  overrule 
his  eyes.  His  understanding,  which  includes  no  intui- 
tive knowledge  of  the  laws  of  vision,  can  furnish  him 
with  no  reason  why  a  line,  which  is  known  and  can  be 
proved  to  be  a  horizontal  line,  should  not  appear  a  hori-  35 
zontal  line.  A  line  that  made  any  angle  with  the  per- 
pendicular less  than  a  right  angle  would  seem  to  him  to 
indicate  that  his  houses  were  all  tumbling  down  together. 
Accordingly,  he  makes  the  line  of  his  houses  a  horizon- 
tal line,  and  fails,  of  course,  to  produce  the  effect  de-  40 
manded.  Here,  then,  is  one  instance  out  of  many,  in 
which  not  only  the  understanding  is  allowed  to  overrule 
the  eyes,  but  where  the  understanding  is  positively  al- 
lowed to  obliterate  the  eyes,  as  it  were;  for  not  only 
does  the  man  believe  the  evidence  of  his  understanding  45 
in  opposition  to  that  of  his  eyes,  but  (what  is  monstrous !) 
the  idiot  is  not  aware  that  his  eyes  ever  gave  such  evi- 
dence. He  does  not  know  that  he  has  seen  (and,  there- 
fore, quoad  \i\%  consciousness  has  «^/seen)  that  which  he 
has  seen  every  day  of  his  life.  50 

But  to  return  from  this  digression.  My  understand- 
ing could  furnish  no  reason  why  the  knocking  at  the 
gate  in  Macbeth  should  produce  any  effect,  direct  or  re- 
flected. In  fact,  my  understanding  said  positively  that 
it  could  not  produce  any  effect.  But  I  knew  better.  I  55 
felt  that  it  did ;  and  I  waited  and  clung  to  the  problem 
until  further  knowledge  should  enable  me  to  solve  it. 


456  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

At  length,  in  1812,  Mr.  Williams  made  his  debut  oxs.  the 
stage  of  Ratcliffe  Highway,  and  executed  those  unparal- 
leled murders  which  have  procured  for  him  such  a  bril-  60 
liant  and  undying  reputation.  On  which  murders,  by 
the  way,  I  must  observe  that  in  one  respect  they  have 
had  an  ill  effect  by  making  the  connoisseur  in  murder 
very  fastidious  in  his  taste,  and  dissatisfied  by  anything 
that  has  been  since  done  in  that  line.  All  other  murders  65 
look  pale  by  the  deep  crimson  of  his;  and,  as  an  ama- 
teur once  said  to  me,  in  a  querulous  tone,  "There  has 
been  absolutely  nothing  doing  since  his  time,  or  noth- 
ing that's  worth  speaking  of."  But  this  is  wrong;  for  it  is 
unreasonable  to  expect  all  men  to  be  great  artists,  and  70 
born  with  the  genius  of  Mr.  Williams.  Now  it  will  be 
remembered  that  in  the  first  of  these  murders  (that  of 
the  Marrs)  the  same  incident  (of  knocking  at  the  door 
soon  after  the  work  of  extermination  was  complete)  did 
actually  occur,  which  the  genius  of.  Shakespeare  has  in-  75 
vented;  and  all  good  judges,  and  the  most  eminent 
dilettanti,  acknowledged  the  felicity  of  Shakespeare's 
suggestion  as  soon  as  it  was  actually  realized.  Here, 
then,  was  a  fresh  proof  that  I  was  right  in  relying  on  my 
o\vn  feelings  in  opposition  to  my  understanding;  and  I  80 
again  set  myself  to  study  the  problem.  At  length  I  solved 
it  to  my  own  satisfaction;  and  the  solution  is  this:  Mur- 
der, in  ordinary  cases,  where  the  sympathy  is  wholly 
directed  to  the  case  of  the  murdered  person,  is  an  inci- 
dent of  coarse  and  vulgar  horror;  and  for  this  reason,  85 
that  it  flings  the  interest  exclusively  upon  the  natural 
but  ignoble  instinct  by  which  we  cleave  to  life;  an  in- 
stinct, which,  as  being  indispensable  to  the  primal  law 
of  self-preservation,  is  the  same  in  kind  (though  differ- 
ent in  degree)  amongst  all  living  creatures.     This  in-  90 


DE   QUINCE Y  457 

stinct,  therefore,  because  it  annihilates  all  distinctions, 
and  degrades  the  greatest  of  men  to  the  level  of  "  the 
poor  beetle  that  we  tread  on,"  exhibits  human  nature  in 
its  most  abject  and  humiliating  attitude.  Such  an  atti- 
tude would  little  suit  the  purposes  of  the  poet.  What,  93 
then,  must  he  do?  He  must  throw  the  interest  on  the 
murderer.  Our  sympathy  must  be  with  him  (of  course 
I  mean  a  sympathy  of  comprehension,  a  sympathy  by 
which  we  enter  into  his  feelings,  and  are  made  to  under- 
stand them  —  not  a  sympathy  of  pity  or  approbation.  100 
In  the  murdered  person  all  strife  of  thought,  all  flux  and 
reflux  of  passion  and  of  purpose,  are  crushed  by  an 
overwhelming  panic;  the  fear  of  instant  death  strikes 
him  "with  its  petrific  mace."  But  in  the  murderer,  such 
a  murderer  as  a  poet  will  condescend  to,  there  must  be  105 
raging  some  great  storm  of  passion  —  jealousy,  ambi- 
tion, vengeance,  hatred  —  which  will  create  a  hell  within 
him;  and  into  this  hell  we  are  to  look. 

In  Macbeth,  for  the  sake  of  gratifying  his  own  enor- 
mous and  teeming  faculty  of  creation,  Shakespeare  has  no 
introduced  two  murderers;  and,  as  usual  in  his  hands, 
they  are  remarkably  discriminated;  but,  though  in  Mac- 
beth the  strife  of  mind  is  greater  than  in  his  wife,  the 
tiger  spirit  not  so  awake,  and  his  feeling  caught  chiefly 
by  contagion  from  her  —  yet,  as  both  are  finally  involved  115 
in  the  guilt  of  murder,  the  murderous  mind  of  necessity 
is  finally  to  be  presumed  in  both.     This  was  to  be  ex- 
pressed; and  on  its  own  account,  as  well  as  to  make  it 
a  more   proportionable   antagonist  to   the  unoffending 
nature  of  their  victim,  "the  gracious  Duncan,"  and  ade-  120 
quately  to  expound  "  the  deep  damnation  of  his  taking 
off,"  this  was  to  be  expressed  with  peculiar  energy.     We 
were  to  be  made  to  feel  that  the  human  nature  —  i.e., 


458  FROxM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

the  divine  nature  of  love  and  mercy,  spread  through  the 
hearts  of  all  creatures,  and  seldom  utterly  withdrawn  from  125 
man  —  was  gone,  vanished,  extinct;  and  that  the  fiend- 
ish nature  had  taken  its  place.  And,  as  this  effect  is 
marvellously  accomplished  in  the  dialogues  and  soliloquies 
themselves,  so  it  is  finally  consummated  by  the  expedi- 
ent under  consideration;  and  it  is  to  this  that  1  now  130 
solicit  the  reader's  attention. 

If  the  reader  has  ever  witnessed  a  wife,  a  daughter, 
or  sister  in  a  fainting  fit,  he  may  chance  to  have  observed 
that  the  most  affecting  moment  in  such  a  spectacle  is 
that  in  which  a  sigh  and  a  stirring  announce  the  recom-  135 
mencement  of  suspended  life.  Or  if  the  reader  has  ever 
been  present  in  a  vast  metropolis  on  the  day  when  some 
great  national  idol  was  carried  in  funeral  pomp  to  his 
grave,  and  chancing  to  walk  near  the  course  through 
which  it  passed,  has  felt  powerfully,  in  the  desertion  and  140 
silence  of  the  streets,  and  in  the  stagnation  of  ordinary 
business,  the  deep  interest  which  at  that  moment  was 
possessing  the  heart  of  man  —  if  all  at  once  he  should 
hear  the  deathlike  stillness  broken  up  by  the  sounds  of 
wheels  rattling  away  from  the  scene,  and  making  known  145 
that  the  transitory  vision  was  dissolved,  he  will  be  aware 
that  at  no  moment  w^as  his  sense  of  the  complete  suspen- 
sion and  pause  in  ordinary  human  concerns  so  full  and 
affecting  as  at  that  moment  when  the  suspension  ceases, 
and  the  goings-on  of  human  life  are  suddenly  resumed.  150 
All  action  in  any  direction  is  best  expounded,  measured, 
and  made  apprehensible  by  reaction. 

Now  apply  this  to  the  case  in  Macbeth.     Here,  as  I 
have  said,  the  retiring  of  the  human  heart  and  the  en- 
trance of  the  fiendish  heart  was  to  be  expressed  and  155 
made  sensible.     Another  world  has  stepped  in;  and  the 


DE   QUINCEY  459 

murderers  are  taken  out  of  the  region  of  human  things, 
human  purposes,  human  desires.  They  are  transfigured : 
Lady  Macbeth  is"unsexed;"  Macbeth  has  forgot  that 
he  was  born  of  woman ;  both  are  conformed  to  the  image  160 
of  devils;  and  the  world  of  devils  is  suddenly  revealed. 
But  how  shall  this  be  conveyed  and  made  palpable?  In 
order  that  a  new  world  may  step  in,  this  world  must  for 
a  time  disappear.  The  murderers,  and  the  murder,  must 
be  insulated  —  cut  off  by  an  immeasurable  gulf  from  the  165 
ordinary  tide  and  succession  of  human  affairs  —  locked 
up  and  sequestered  in  some  deep  recess;  we  must  be 
made  sensible  that  the  world  of  ordinary  life  is  suddenly 
arrested  —  laid  asleep  —  tranced  —  racked  into  a  dread 
armistice;  time  must  be  annihilated;  relation  to  things  170 
without  abolished;  and  all  must  pass  self-withdrawn 
into  a  deep  syncope  and  suspension  of  earthly  passion. 
Hence  it  is  that,  when  the  deed  is  done,  when  the  work 
of  darkness  is  perfect,  then  the  world  of  darkness  passes 
away  like  a  pageantry  in  the  clouds:  the  knocking  at  the  175 
gate  is  heard;  and  it  makes  known  audibly  that  the 
reaction  has  commenced :  the  human  has  made  its  reflox 
upon  the  fiendish;  the  pulses  of  life  are  beginning  to 
beat  again;  and  the  re  establishment  of  the  goings-on 
of  the  world  in  which  we  live  first  makes  us  profoundly  180 
sensible  of  the  awful  parenthesis  that  had  suspended 
them. 

O,  mighty  poet !  Thy  works  are  not  as  those  of  other 
men,  simply  and  merely  great  works  of  art ;  but  are  also 
like  the  phenomena  of  nature,  like  the  sun  and  the  sea,  185 
the  stars  and  the  flowers  —  like  frost  and  snow,  rain  and 
dew,  hail-storm  and  thunder,  which  are  to  be  studied 
with  entire  submission  of  our  own  faculties,  and  in  the 
perfect  faith  that  in  them  there  can  be  no  too  much  or 


460  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

too  little,  nothing  useless  or  inert  ^-  but  that,  the  farther  190 
we  progress  in  our  discoveries,  the  more  we  shall  see 
proofs  of  design  and  self-supporting  arrangement  where 
the  careless  eye  had  seen  nothing  but  accident ! 


THE   THREE   LADIES   OF   SORROW 

"  I  KNOW  them  thoroughly,  and  have  walked  in  all  their 
kingdoms.  Three  sisters  they  are,  of  one  mysterious 
household;  and  their  paths  are  wide  apart;  but  of  their 
dominion  there  is  no  end.  Them  I  saw  often  convers- 
ing with  Levana,  and  sometimes  about  myself.  Do  5 
they  talk,  then?  Oh,  no!  Mighty  phantoms  like  these 
disdain  the  infirmities  of  language.  They  may  utter 
voices  through  the  organs  of  man  when  they  dwell  in 
human  hearts,  but  amongst  themselves  there  is  no  voice 
nor  sound;  eternal  silence  reigns  in  their  kingdoms.  10 
They  spoke  not,  as  they  talked  with  Levana;  they  whis- 
pered not;  they  sang  not;  though  oftentimes  methought 
they  might  \v2M^  sung:  for  I  upon  earth  had  heard  their 
mysteries  oftentimes  deciphered  by  harp  and  timbrel, 
by  dulcimer  and  organ.  Like  God,  whose  servants  they  15 
are,  they  utter  their  pleasure,  not  by  sounds  that  perish, 
or  by  words  that  go  astray,  but  by  signs  in  heaven,  by 
changes  on  earth,  by  pulses  in  secret  rivers,  heraldries 
painted  in  darkness,  and  hieroglyphics  written  on  the 
tablets  of  the  brain.  They  wheeled  in  mazes;  /spelled  20 
the  steps.  They  telegraphed  from  afar;  /read  the  sig- 
nals, /y^ifj  conspired  together;  and  on  the  mirrors  of 
darkness  my  eye  traced  the  plots.  Theirs  were  the  sym- 
bols; mine  are  the  words. 


DE    QUINCEY  46 1 

"What  is  it  the  sisters  are?     What  is  it  that  they  do?  25 
Let  me  describe  their  form  and  their  presence :  if  form 
it  were  that  still  fluctuated  in  its  outline,  or  presence  it 
were  that  for  ever  advanced  to  the  front  or  for  ever  re- 
ceded amongst  shades. 

"The  eldest  of  the  three  is  named  Mater  Lachryma-  30 
rum,  Our  Lady  of  Tears.     She  it  is  that  night  and  day 
raves  and  moans,  calling  for  vanished  faces.     She  stood 
in  Rama,  where  a  voice  was  heard  of  lamentation  — 
Rachel  v/eeping  for  her  children,  and  refusing  to  be 
comforted.     She  it  was  that  stood  in  Bethlehem  on  the  35 
night  when  Herod's  sword  swept  its  nurseries  of  inno- 
cents, and  the  little  feet  were  stiffened  for  ever,  which, 
heard  at  times  as  they  tottered  along  floors  overhead, 
woke  pulses  of  love  in  household  hearts  that  were  not 
unmarked  in  heaven.     Her  eyes  are  sweet  and  subtle,   40 
wild   and  sleepy,   by  turns;    oftentimes   rising   to  the 
clouds,  oftentimes  challenging  the  heavens.     She  wears 
a  diadem  round  her  head.     And  I  knew  by  childish 
memories  that  she  could  go  abroad  upon  the  winds,  when 
she  heard  the  sobbing  of  litanies  or  the  thundering  of  45 
organs,  and  when  she  beheld  the  mustering  of  summer 
clouds.     This  sister,  the  eldest,  it  is  that  carries  keys 
more  than  papal  at  her  girdle,  which  open  every  cottage 
and  every  palace.     She,  to  my  knowledge,  sat  all  last 
summer  by  the  bedside  of  the  blind  beggar,  him  that  so  50 
often  and  so  gladly  I  talked  with,  whose  pious  daughter, 
eight  years  old,  with  the  sunny  countenance,  resisted  the 
temptations  of  play  and  village  mirth  to  travel  all  day 
long  on  dusty  roads  with  her  afiflicted  father.     For  this 
did  God  send  her  a  great  reward.     In  the  spring  time  cA  55 
the  year,  and  whilst  her  own  spring  was  budding,  he  re- 
called her  to  himself.     But  her  blind  father  mourns  for 


462  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

ever  ovtx  her;  still  he  dreams  at  midnight  that  the  little 
guiding  hand   is  locked  within   his   own;  and  still  he 
awakens  to  a  darkness  that  is  now  within  a  second  and  a  60 
deeper  darkness.     This  Mater  Lachrymarum  also  has 
been  sitting  all  this  winter  of  1844-5  within  the  bed- 
chamber of  the  Czar,  bringing  before  his  eyes  a  daughter, 
not  less  pious,  that  vanished  to  God  not  less  suddenly, 
and  left  behind  her  a  darkness  not  less  profound.     By  65 
the  power  of  the  keys  it  is  that  Our  Lady  of  Tears  glides, 
a  ghostly  intruder,  into  the  chambers  of  sleepless  men, 
sleepless  women,  sleepless  children,  from  Ganges  to  the 
Nile,  from  Nile  to  Mississippi.     And  her,  because  she 
is  the  first-bom  of  her  house  and  has  the  widest  empire,   70 
let  us  honour  with  the  title  of  Madonna. 

"The  second  sister  is  called  Mater  Suspiriorutn,  Our 
Lady  of  Sighs.  She  never  scales  the  clouds,  nor  walks 
abroad  upon  the  winds.  She  wears  no  diadem.  And 
her  eyes,  if  they  were  ever  seen,  would  be  neither  sweet  75 
nor  subtle;  no  man  could  read  their  story;  they  would 
be  found  filled  with  perishing  dreams,  and  with  wrecks 
of  forgotten  delirium.  But  she  raises  not  her  eyes;  her 
head,  on  which  sits  a  dilapidated  turban,  droops  for 
ever,  for  ever  fastens  on  the  dust.  She  weeps  not.  She  80 
groans  not.  But  she  sighs  inaudibly  at  intervals.  Her 
sister,  Madonna,  is  oftentimes  stormy  and  frantic,  rag- 
ing in  the  highest  against  heaven,  and  demanding  back 
her  darlings.  But  Our  Lady  of  Sighs  never  clamours, 
never  defies,  dreams  not  of  rebellious  aspirations.  She  85 
is  humble  to  abjectness.  Hers  is  the  meekness  that 
belongs  to  the  hopeless.  Murmur  she  may,  but  it  is  in 
her 'sleep.  Whisper  she  may,  but  it  is  to  herself  in  the 
twilight.  Mutter  she  does  at  times,  but  it  is  in  solitary 
places  that  are  desolate  as  she  is  desolate,  in  ruined  90 


DE   QUINCE Y  463 

cities,   and  when  the  sun  has  gone  down  to  his  rest. 
This  sister  is  the  visitor  of  the  Pariah,  of  the  Jew,  of  the 
bondsman  to  the  oar  in  the  Mediterranean  galleys;  of 
the  English  criminal  in  Norfolk  Island,  blotted  out  from 
the  books  of  remembrance  in  sweet  far-off  England;  of  95 
the  baffled  penitent  reverting  his  eyes  for  ever  upon  a 
solitary  grave,  which  to  him  seems  the  altar  overthrown 
of  some  past  and  bloody  sacrifice,  on  which  altar  no 
oblations  can  now  be  availing,  whether  towards  pardon 
that  he  might  implore,  or  towards  reparation  that  he  100 
might  attempt.     Every  slave  that  at  noonday  looks  up  to 
the  tropical  sun  with  timid  reproach,  as  he  points  with 
one  hand  to  the  earth,  our  general  mother,  but  for  him 
a  step-mother  —  as  he  points  with  the  other  hand  to  the 
Bible,  our  general  teacher,  but  against  him  sealed  and  105 
sequestered;  every  woman  sitting  in  darkness,  without 
love  to  shelter  her  head,  or  hope  to  illumine   her  soli- 
tude, because  the  heaven-born  instincts  kindling  in  her 
nature  germs  of  holy  affections,  which  God  implanted  in 
her  womanly  bosom,  having  been  stifled  by  social  neces-  no 
sities,  now  burn  sullenly  to  waste,  like  sepulchral  lamps 
amongst  the  ancients;  every  nun  defrauded  of  her  unre- 
turning  May-time  by  wicked  kinsmen,  whom  God  will 
judge;  all  that  are  betrayed,  and  all  that  are  rejected; 
outcasts  by  traditionary  law,  and  children  of  hereditary  115 
disgrace  —  all  these  walk  with  Our  Lady  of  Sighs.     She 
also  carries  a  key,  but  she  needs  it  little.     For  her  king- 
dom   is   chiefly  amongst  the  tents  of   Shem,   and  the 
houseless  vagrant  of  every  clime.     Yet  in  the  very  high- 
est walks  of  man  she  finds  chapels  of  her  own;  and  even  120 
in  glorious  England  there  are  some  that,  to  the  world, 
carry  their  heads  as  proudly  as  the  reindeer,  who  yet 
secretly  have  received  her  mark  upon  their  foreheads. 


464  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

"But  the  third  sister,  who  is  also  the  youngest  — ! 
Hush!  whisper  whilst  we  talk  of  her  I  Her  kingdom  is  125 
not  large,  or  else  no  flesh  should  live;  but  within  that 
kingdom  all  power  is  hers.  Her  head,  turreted  like  that 
of  Cybele,  rises  almost  beyond  the  reach  of  sight.  She 
droops  not;  and  her  eyes,  rising  so  high,  might  be  hidden 
by  distance.  But,  being  what  they  are,  they  cannot  be  130 
hidden;  through  the  treble  veil  of  crape  which  she  wears, 
the  fierce  light  of  a  blazing  misery,  that  rests  not  for 
matins  or  for  vespers,  for  noon  of  day  or  noon  of  night, 
for  ebbing  or  for  flowing  tide,  may  be  read  from  the 
very  ground.  She  is  the  defier  of  God.  She  is  also  the  135 
mother  of  lunacies  and  the  suggestress  of  suicides.  Deep 
lie  the  roots  of  her  power,  but  narrow  is  the  nation  that 
she  rules.  For  she  can  approach  only  those  in  whom 
a  profound  nature  has  been  upheaved  by  central  convul- 
sions, in  whom  the  heart  trembles  and  the  brain  rocks  140 
under  conspiracies  of  tempest  from  without  and  tempest 
from  within.  Madonna  moves  with  uncertain  steps, 
fast  or  slow,  but  still  with  tragic  grace.  Our  Lady  of 
Sighs  creeps  timidly  and  stealthily.  But  this  youngest 
sister  moves  with  incalculable  motions,  bounding,  and  145 
with  tiger's  leaps.  She  carries  no  key;  for,  though  com- 
ing rarely  amongst  men,  she  storms  all  doors  at  which 
she  is  permitted  to  enter  at  all.  And  her  name  is  Mater 
Tenebrarum,  Our  Lady  of  Darkness." 


LORD    BYRON 

(1788-1824) 

SHE  WALKS   IN   BEAUTY 

She  walks  in  beauty,  like  the  night 
Of  cloudless  climes  and  starry  skies; 

And  all  that's  best  of  dark  and  bright 
Meet  in  her  aspect  and  her  eyes: 

Thus  mellow'd  to  that  tender  light  5 

Which  heaven  to  gaudy  day  denies. 

One  shade  the  more,  one  ray  the  less. 
Had  half  impair'd  the  nameless  grace 

Which  waves  in  every  raven  tress, 

Or  softly  lightens  o'er  her  face;  10 

Where  thoughts  serenely  sweet  express 
How  pure,  how  dear  their  dwelling-place. 

And  on  that  cheek,  and  o'er  that  brow, 

So  soft,  so  calm,  yet  eloquent. 
The  smiles  that  win,  the  tints  that  glow,  15 

But  tell  of  days  in  goodness  spent, 
A  mind  at  peace  with  all  below, 

A  heart  whose  love  is  innocent! 

2H  465 


466  FROM    CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

STANZAS  FOR  MUSIC 

There's  not  a  joy  the  world  can  give  like  that  it  takes 

away, 
When  the  glow  of  early  thought  declines  in  feeling's  dull 

decay : 
'Tis  not  on  youth's  smooth  cheek  the  blush  alone,  which 

fades  so  fast, 
But  the  tender  bloom  of  heart  is  gone,  ere  youth  itself 

be  past. 

Then  the  few  whose  spirits  float  above  the  wreck  of    5 

happiness. 
Are  driven  o'er  the  shoals  of  guilt  or  ocean  of  excess: 
The  magnet  of  their  course  is  gone,  or  only  points  in 

vain 
The  shore  to  which  their  shiver'd  sail  shall  never  stretch 

again. 

Then  the  mortal  coldness  of  the  soul  like  death  itself 

comes  down; 
It  cannot  feel  for  other's  woes,  it  dare  not  dream  its  10 

own; 
That  heavy  chill  has  frozen  o'er  the  fountain  of  our  tears, 
And  though  the  eye  may  sparkle  still,  'tis  where  the  ice 

appears. 

Though  wit  may  flash  from  fluent  lips,  and  mirth  dis- 
tract the  breast, 

Through  midnight  hours  that  yield  no  more  their  former 
hope  of  rest; 

'Tis  but  as  ivy-leaves  around  the  ruin'd  turret  wreath,       15 

All  green  and  wildly  fresh  without,  but  worn  and  grey 
beneath. 


BYRON  467 

Oh  could  I  feel  as  I   have  felt,  —  or  be  what  I  have 

been, 
Or  weep  as  I  could  once  have  wept  o'er  many  a  vanish'd 

scene; 
As  springs  in  deserts  found  seem  sweet,  all  brackish 

though  they  be, 
So,  midst  the  wither' d  waste  of  life,  those  tears  would  20 

flow  to  me. 


THE   ISLES   OF   GREECE 

The  isles  of  Greece !  the  isles  of  Greece ! 

Where  burning  Sappho  loved  and  sung, 
Where  grew  the  arts  of  war  and  peace. 

Where  Delos  rose,  and  Phoebus  sprung ! 
Eternal  summer  gilds  them  yet,  5 

But  all,  except  their  sun,  is  set. 

The  Scian  and  the  Teian  muse. 

The  hero's  harp,  the  lover's  lute, 
Have  found  the  fame  your  shores  refuse : 

Their  place  of  birth  alone  is  mute  10 

To  sounds  which  echo  further  west 
Than  your  sires'  'Islands  of  the  Blest.' 

The  mountains  look  on  Marathon  — 

And  Marathon  looks  on  the  sea; 
And  musing  there  an  hour  alone,  15 

I  dreamed  that  Greece  might  still  be  free; 
For,  standing  on  the  Persians'  grave, 
I  could  not  deem  myself  a  slave. 


468  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

A  king  sate  on  the  rocky  brow 

Which  looks  o'er  sea-born  Salamis;  20 

And  ships,  by  thousands,  lay  below. 

And  men  in  nations;  —  all  were  his! 
He  counted  them  at  break  of  day  — 
And  when  the  sun  set,  where  were  they? 

And  where  are  they?  and  where  art  thou,  25 

My  country?     On  thy  voiceless  shore 

The  heroic  lay  is  tuneless  now  — 
The  heroic  bosom  beats  no  more ! 

And  must  thy  lyre,  so  long  divine, 

Degenerate  into  hands  like  mine?  30 

'Tis  something,  in  the  dearth  of  fame. 
Though  link'd  among  a  fetter' d  race. 
To  feel  at  least  a  patriot's  shame, 
,  Even  as  I  sing,  suffuse  my  face; 

For  what  is  left  the  poet  here  ?  35 

For  Greeks  a  blush  —  for  Greece  a  tear. 

Must  we  but  weep  o'er  days  more  blest? 

Must  we  but  blush? —  Our  fathers  bled. 
Earth !  render  back  from  out  thy  breast 

A  remnant  of  our  Spartan  dead !  40 

Of  the  three  hundred  grant  but  three, 
To  make  a  new  Thermopylae ! 

What,  silent  still?  and  silent  all? 

Ah!  no;  —  the  voices  of  the  dead 
Sound  like  a  distant  torrent's  fall,  45 

And  answer,  'Let  one  living  head, 
But  one  arise,  —  we  come,  we  come ! ' 
'Tis  but  the  living  who  are  dumb. 


BYRON  469 

In  vain  —  in  vain:  strike  other  chords; 

Fill  high  the  cup  with  Samian  wine !  50 

Leave  battles  to  the  Turkish  hordes, 

And  shed  the  blood  of  Scio's  vine ! 
Hark !  rising  to  the  ignoble  call  — 
How  answers  each  bold  Bacchanal ! 

You  have  the  Pyrrhic  dance  as  yet;  55 

Where  is  the  Pyrrhic  phalanx  gone  ? 

Of  two  such  lessons,  why  forget 
The  nobler  and  the  manlier  one? 

You  have  the  letters  Cadmus  gave  — 

Think  ye  he  meant  them  for  a  slave  ?  60 

Fill  high  the  bowl  with  Samian  wine ! 

We  will  not  think  of  themes  like  these ! 
It  made  Anacreon's  song  divine: 

He  served  —  but  served  Polycrates  — 
A  tyrant;  but  our  masters  then  65 

Were  still,  at  least,  our  countrymen. 

The  tyrant  of  the  Chersonese 

Was  freedom's  best  and  bravest  friend; 
That  tyrant  was  Miltiades! 

Oh !  that  the  present  hour  would  lend  70 

Another  despot  of  the  kind ! 
Such  chains  as  his  were  sure  to  bind. 

Fill  high  the  bowl  with  Samian  wine  ! 

On  Suli's  rock,  and  Parga's  shore. 
Exists  the  remnant  of  a  line  75 

Such  as  the  Doric  mothers  bore; 
And  there,  perhaps,  some  seed  is  sown, 
The  Heracleidan  blood  might  own. 


470  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

Trust  not  for  freedom  to  the  Franks  — 

They  have  a  king  who  buys  and  sells;  80 

In  native  swords,  and  native  ranks, 
The  only  hope  of  courage  dwells: 

But  Turkish  force,  and  Latin  fraud. 

Would  break  your  shield,  however  broad. 

Fill  high  the  bowl  with  Samian  wine !  85 

Our  virgins  dance  beneath  the  shade  — 

I  see  their  glorious  black  eyes  shine; 
But  gazing  on  each  glowing  maid, 

My  own  the  burning  tear-drop  laves, 

To  think  such  breasts  must  suckle  slaves.  90 

Place  me  on  Sunium's  marbled  steep. 
Where  nothing,  save  the  waves  and  I, 

May  hear  our  mutual  murmurs  sweep; 
There,  swan-like,  let  me  sing  and  die  : 

A  land  of  slaves  shall  ne'er  be  mine —  95 

Dash  down  yon  cup  of  Samian  wine ! 


OCEAN 


There  is  a  pleasure  in  the  pathless  woods. 
There  is  a  rapture  on  the  lonely  shore, 
There  is  society,  where  none  intrudes, 
By  the  deep  Sea,  and  music  in  its  roar: 
I  love  not  Man  the  less,  but  Nature  more. 
From  these  our  interviews,  in  which  I  steal 
From  all  I  may  be,  or  have  been  before, 
To  mingle  with  the  Universe,  and  feel 
What  I  can  ne'er  express,  yet  cannot  all  conceal. 


BYRON  471 

Roll  on,  thou  deep  and  dark  blue  Ocean  —  roll!        10 
Ten  thousand  fleets  sweep  over  thee  in  vain; 
Man  marks  the  earth  with  ruin  —  his  control 
Stops  with  the  shore;  upon  the  watery  plain 
The  wrecks  are  all  thy  deed,  nor  doth  remain 
A  shadow  of  man's  ravage,  save  his  own,  n; 

When,  in  a  moment,  like  a  drop  of  rain. 
He  sinks  into  thy  depths  with  bubbling  groan, 
Without  a  grave,  unknell'd,  uncoffin'd,  and  unknown. 

His  steps  are  not  upon  thy  paths,  — thy  fields 
Are  not  a  spoil  for  him,  —  thou  dost  arise  20 

And  shake  him  from  thee;  the  vile  strength  he  wields 
For  earth's  destruction  thou  dost  all  despise. 
Spurning  him  from  thy  bosom  to  the  skies. 
And  send'st  him,  shivering  in  thy  playful  spray 
And  howling,  to  his  Gods,  where  haply  lies  25 

His  petty  hope  in  some  near  port  or  bay. 
And  dashest  him  again  to  earth :  —  there  let  him  lay. 

The  armaments  which  thunderstrike  the  walls 
Of  rock-built  cities,  bidding  nations  quake, 
And  monarchs  tremble  in  their  capitals,  30 

The  oak  leviathans,  whose  huge  ribs  make 
Their  clay  creator  the  vain  title  take 
Of  lord  of  thee,  and  arbiter  of  war  — 
These  are  thy  toys,  and,  as  the  snowy  flake, 
They  melt  into  thy  yeast  of  waves,  which  mar  35 

Alike  the  Armada's  pride  or  spoils  of  Trafalgar. 

Thy  shores  are  empires,  changed  in  all  save  thee  — 
Assyria,  Greece,  Rome,  Carthage,  what  are  they? 
Thy  waters  wash'd  them  power  while  they  were  free, 
And  many  a  tyrant  since;  their  shores  obey  40 


472  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

The  stranger,  slave,  or  savage;  their  decay 
Has  dried  up  realms  to  deserts:  —  not  so  thou;  — 
Unchangeable,  save  to  thy  wild  waves'  play, 
Time  writes  no  wrinkle  on  thine  azure  brow : 
Such  as  creation's  dawn  beheld,  thou  rollest  now.  45 

Thou  glorious  mirror,  where  the  Almighty's  form 
Glasses  itself  in  tempests;  in  all  time,  — 
Calm  or  convulsed,  in  breeze,  or  gale,  or  storm, 
Icing  the  pole,  or  in  the  torrid  clime 
Dark-heaving  —  boundless,  endless,  and  sublime.       50 
The  image  of  eternity,  the  throne 
Of  the  invisible;  even  from  out  thy  slime 
The  monsters  of  the  deep  are  made;  each  zone 
Obeys  thee;  thou  goest  forth,  dread,  fathomless,  alone. 

And  I  have  loved  thee,  Ocean !  and  my  joy  55 

Of  youthful  sports  was  on  thy  breast  to  be 
Borne,  like  thy  bubbles,  onward :  from  a  boy 
I  wanton'd  with  thy  breakers  —  they  to  me 
Were  a  delight;  and  if  the  freshening  sea 
Made  them  a  terror —  'twas  a  pleasing  fear,  60 

For  I  was  as  it  were  a  child  of  thee, 
And  trusted  to  thy  billows  far  and  near, 
And  laid  my  hand  upon  thy  mane  —  as  I  do  here. 


ON   THIS   DAY   I   COMPLETE   MY  THIRTY-SIXTH 
YEAR 

'Tis  time  this  heart  should  be  unmoved. 
Since  others  it  hath  ceased  to  move : 
Yet  though  I  cannot  be  beloved. 
Still  let  me  love ! 


BYRON  473 

My  days  are  in  the  yellow  leaf;  5 

The  flowers  and  fruits  of  love  are  gone; 
The  worm,  the  canker,  and  the  grief 
Are  mine  alone ! 

The  fire  that  on  my  bosom  preys 

Is  lone  as  some  volcanic  isle;  lo 

No  torch  is  kindled  at  its  blaze  — 
A  funeral  pile. 

The  hope,  the  fear,  the  jealous  care, 

The  exalted  portion  of  the  pain 
And  power  of  love,  I  cannot  share.  15 

But  wear  the  chain. 

But  'tis  not  thus  —  and  'tis  not  here  — 

Such  thoughts  should  shake  my  soul,  nor  now^ 
Where  glory  decks  the  hero's  bier. 

Or  binds  his  brow.  20 

The  sword,  the  banner,  and  the  field. 
Glory  and  Greece,  around  me  see ! 
The  Spartan,  borne  upon  his  shield. 
Was  not  more  free. 

Awake !  (not  Greece  —  she  is  awake !)  25 

Awake,  my  spirit !     Think  through  whom 
Thy  life-blood  tracks  its  parent  lake, 
And  then  strike  home ! 

Tread  those  reviving  passions  down. 

Unworthy  manhood  ■  —  unto  thee  30 

Indifferent  should  the  smile  or  frown 
Of  beauty  be. 


474  FROM   CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

If  thou  regrett'st  thy  youth,  why  live? 

The  land  of  honourable  death 
Is  here:  —  up  to  the  field,  and  give  35 

Away  thy  breath ! 

Seek  out  —  less  often  sought  than  found  — 

A  soldier's  grave,  for  thee  the  best; 
Then  look  around,  and  choose  thy  ground, 

And  take  thy  rest.  40 

MiSSOLONGHI,  Jan.  22,   1834. 


SONNET   ON   CHILLON 

Eternal  Spirit  of  the  chainless  Mind! 

Brightest  in  dungeons,  Liberty !  thou  art. 

For  there  thy  habitation  is  the  heart  — 
The  heart  which  love  of  thee  alone  can  bind; 
And  when  thy  sons  to  fetters  are  consign'd  — 

To  fetters,  and  the  damp,  vault's  dayless  gloom, 

Their  country  conquers  with  their  martyrdom, 
And  Freedom's  fame  finds  wings  on  every  wind. 
Chillon !  thy  prison  is  a  holy  place. 

And  thy  sad  floor  an  altar  —  for  'twas  trod. 
Until  his  very  steps  have  left  a  trace 

Worn,  as  if  thy  cold  pavement  were  a  sod, 
By  Bonnivard !     May  none  those  marks  efface ! 

For  they  appeal  from  tyranny  to  God. 


PERCY    BYSSHE   SHELLEY 

(X79a-i8aa) 
THE   CLOUD 

I  BRING  fresh  showers  for  the  thirsting  flowers 

From  the  seas  and  the  streams; 
I  bear  light  shade  for  the  leaves  when  laid 

In  their  noonday  dreams. 
From  my  wings  are  shaken  the  dews  that  waken  5 

The  sweet  buds  every  one, 
When  rocked  to  rest  on  their  Mother's  breast, 

As  she  dances  about  the  sun. 
I  wield  the  flail  of  the  lashing  hail, 

And  whiten  the  green  plains  under;  10 

And  then  again  I  dissolve  it  in  rain. 

And  laugh  as  I  pass  in  thunder. 

I  sift  the  snow  on  the  mountains  below. 

And  their  great  pines  groan  aghast; 
And  all  the  night  'tis  my  pillow  white,  15 

While  I  sleep  in  the  arms  of  the  Blast- 
Sublime  on  the  towers  of  my  skiey  bowers 

Lightning  my  pilot  sits; 
In  a  cavern  under  is  fettered  the  Thunder, 

It  struggles  and  howls  at  fits.  20 

Over  earth  and  ocean  with  gentle  motion 

This  pilot  is  guiding  me, 
Lured  by  the  love  of  the  Genii  that  move 

In  the  depths  of  the  purple  sea; 
475 


476  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

Over  the  rills  and  the  crags  and  the  hills,  25 

Over  the  lakes  and  the  plains, 
Wherever  he  dream  under  mountain  or  stream 

The  Spirit  he  loves  remains; 
And  I  all  the  while  bask  in  heaven's  blue  smile, 

Whilst  he  is  dissolving  in  rains.  30 

The  sanguine  Sunrise,  with  his  meteor  eyes, 

And  his  burning  plumes  outspread, 
Leaps  on  the  back  of  my  sailing  rack. 

When  the  morning  star  shines  dead : 
As  on  the  jag  of  a  mountain-crag  35 

Which  an  earthquake  rocks  and  swings 
An  eagle  alit  one  moment  may  sit 

In  the  light  of  its  golden  wings. 
And,  when  Sunset  may  breathe,  from  the  lit  sea  beneath, 

Its  ardour  of  rest  and  of  love,  40 

And  the  crimson  pall  of  eve  may  fall 

From  the  depth  of  heaven  above. 
With  wings  folded  I  rest  on  mine  airy  nest, 

As  still  as  a  brooding  dove. 

That  orb^d  maiden  with  white  fire  laden  45 

Whom  mortals  call  the  Moon 
Glides  glimmering  o'er  my  fleece-like  floor 

By  the  midnight  breezes  strewn; 
And  wherever  the  beat  of  her  unseen  feet. 

Which  only  the  angels  hear,  50 

May  have  broken  the  woof  of  my  tent's  thin  roof 

The  Stars  peep  behind  her  and  peer. 
And  I  laugh  to  see  them  whirl  and  flee 

Like  a  swarm  of  golden  bees, 


SHELLEY  477 

When  I  widen  the  rent  in  my  wind-built  tent,  —  55 

Till  the  calm  rivers,  lakes,  and  seas, 
Like  strips  of  the  sky  fallen  through  me  on  high, 

Are  each  paved  with  the  moon  and  these. 

I  bind  the  Sun's  throne  with  a  burning  zone, 

And  the  Moon's  with  a  girdle  of  pearl;  60 

The  volcanoes  are  dim,  and  the  Stars  reel  and  swim. 

When  the  Whirlwinds  my  banner  unfurl. 
From  cape  to  cape,  with  a  bridge-like  shape, 

Over  a  torrent  sea, 
Sunbeam-proof,  I  hang  like  a  roof;  65 

The  mountains  its  columns  be. 
The  triumphal  arch  through  which  I  march. 

With  hurricane,  fire,  and  snow, 
When  the  Powers  of  the  air  are  chained  to  my  chair, 

Is  the  million-coloured  bow;  70 

The  Sphere-fire  above  its  soft  colours  wove, 

While  the  moist  Earth  was  laughing  below. 

T  am  the  daughter  of  Earth  and  Water, 

And  the  nursling  of  the  Sky : 
I  pass  through  the  pores  of  the  ocean  and  shores;  75 

I  change,  but  I  cannot  die. 
For  after  the  rain,  when  with  never  a  stain 

The  pavilion  of  heaven  is  bare. 
And  the  winds  and  sunbeams  with  their  convex  gleams 

Build  up  the  blue  dome  of  air,  80 

I  silently  laugh  at  my  own  cenotaph,  — 

And  out  of  the  caverns  of  rain, 
Like  a  child  from  the  womb,  like  a  ghost  from  the  tomb, 

I  arise,  and  unbuild  it  again. 


47^  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 


TO   A   SKYLARK 

Hail  to  thee,  blithe  spirit  — 

Bird  thou  never  wert  — 
That  from  heaven  or  near  it 

Pourest  thy  full  heart 
In  profuse  strains  of  unpremeditated  art.  5 

Higher  still  and  higher 

From  the  earth  thou  springest, 
Like  a  cloud  of  fire; 
The  blue  deep  thou  wingest, 
And  singing  still  dost  soar,  and  soaring  ever  singest.     10 

In  the  golden  lightning 

Of  the  sunken  sun, 
O'er  which  clouds  are  bright'ning, 
Thou  dost  float  and  run, 
Like  an  unbodied  joy  whose  race  is  just  begun.  15 

The  pale  purple  even 

Melts  around  thy  flight; 
Like  a  star  of  heaven, 
In  the  broad  daylight 
Thou  art  unseen,  but  yet  I  hear  thy  shrill  delight —       20 

Keen  as  are  the  arrows 

Of  that  silver  sphere 
Whose  intense  lamp  narrows 

In  the  white  dawn  clear, 
Until  we  hardly  see,  we  feel,  that  it  is  there.  25 


SHELLEY  479 

All  the  earth  and  air 

With  thy  voice  is  loud, 
As,  when  night  is  bare, 

From  one  lonely  cloud 
The  moon  rains  out  her  beams,  and  heaven  is  overflowed,  t^o 

What  thou  art  we  know  not; 

What  is  most  like  thee? 
From  rainbow-clouds  there  flow  not 
Drops  so  bright  to  see 
As  from  thy  presence  showers  a  rain  of  melody :  —  35 

Like  a  poet  hidden 

In  the  light  of  thought, 
Singing  hymns  unbidden, 
Till  the  world  is  wrought 
To  sympathy  with  hopes  and  fears  it  heeded  not :  40 

Like  a  high-bom  maiden 

In  a  palace  tower, 
Soothing  her  love-laden 
Soul  in  secret  hour 
With  music  sweet  as  love  which  overflows  her  bower :        45 

Like  a  glow-worm  golden 

In  a  dell  of  dew, 
Scattering  unbeholden 

Its  aerial  hue 
Among  the  flowers  and  grass  which  screen  it  from  the  view :  50 

Like  a  rose  embowered 

In  its  own  green  leaves. 
By  warm  winds  deflowered, 
Till  the  scent  it  gives 
Makes  faint  with  too  much  sweet  these  heavy-winged  55 
thieves. 


480  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

Sound  of  vernal  showers 

On  the  twinkling  grass. 
Rain-awakened  flowers,  — 

All  that  ever  was, 
Joyous  and  clear  and  fresh,  —  thy  music  doth  surpass.      60 

Teach  us,  sprite  or  bird. 

What  sweet  thoughts  are  thine : 

I  have  never  heard 
Praise  of  love  or  wine 
That  panted  forth  a  flood  of  rapture  so  divine.  65 

Chorus  hymeneal 

Or  triumphal  chaunt, 
Matched  with  thine,  would  be  all 
But  an  empty  vaunt  — 
A  thing  wherein  we  feel  there  is  some  hidden  want.  70 

What  objects  are  the  fountains 

Of  thy  happy  strain? 
What  fields,  or  waves,  or  mountains? 
What  shapes  of  sky  or  plain? 
What  love  of  thine  own  kind?  what  ignorance  of  pain?  75 

With  thy  clear  keen  joyance 

Languor  cannot  be : 
Shadow  of  annoyance 
Never  came  near  thee : 
Thou  lovest,  but  ne'er  knew  love's  sad  satiety.  80 

Waking  or  asleep, 

Thou  of  death  must  deem 
Things  more  true  and  deep 

Than  we  mortals  dream, 
Or  how  could  thy  notes  flow  in  such  a  crystal  stream  ?       85 


SHELLEY  481 

We  look  before  and  after, 

And  pine  for  what  is  not: 
Our  sincerest  laughter 

With  some  pain  is  fraught; 
Our  sweetest  songs  are  those  that  tell  of  saddest  thought.  90 

Yet,  if  we  could  scorn 

Hate  and  pride  and  fear, 
If  we  were  things  born  • 

Not  to  shed  a  tear, 
I  know  not  how  thy  joy  we  ever  should  come  near.  95 

Better  than  all  measures 

Of  delightful  sound, 
Better  than  all  treasures 
That  in  books  are  found, 
Thy  skill  to  poet  were,  thou  scorner  of  the  ground !  100 

Teach  me  half  the  gladness 

That  thy  brain  must  know; 
Such  harmonious  madness 

From  my  lips  would  flow 
The  world  should  listen  then  as  I  am  listening  now.         105 


ODE   TO   THE   WEST  WIND 
I 

O  WILD  West  Wind,  thou  breath  of  Autumn's  being. 
Thou  from  whose  unseen  presence  the  leaves  dead 
Are  driven  like  ghosts  from  an  enchanter  fleeing, 

Yellow,  and  black,  and  pale,  and  hectic  red. 
Pestilence-stricken  multitudes !     O  thou 
Who  chariotest  to  their  dark  wintry  bed 


482  FROM   CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

The  winged  seeds,  where  they  lie  cold  and  low, 

Each  like  a  corpse  within  its  grave,  until 
Thine  azure  sister  of  the  Spring  shall  blow 

Her  clarion  o'er  the  dreaming  earth,  and  fill 
(Driving  sweet  buds  like  flocks  to  feed  in  air) 
With  living  hues  and  odours  plain  and  hill; 

Wild  Spirit  which  art  moving  everywhere; 
"Destroyer  and  preserver;  hear,  oh  hear! 


Thou  on  whose  stream,  mid  the  steep  sky's  commotion,  15 

Loose  clouds  like  earth's  decaying  leaves  are  shed. 
Shook  from  the  tangled  boughs  of  heaven  and  ocean, 

Angels  of  rain  and  lightning !  there  are  spread 
On  the  blue  surface  of  thine  airy  surge. 

Like  the  bright  hair  uplifted  from  the  head  20 

Of  some  fierce  Maenad,  even  from  the  dim  verge 

Of  the  horizon  to  the  zenith's  height. 
The  locks  of  the  approaching  storm.     Thou  dirge 

Of  the  dying  year,  to  which  this  closing  night 
Will  be  the  dome  of  a  vast  sepulchre,  25 

Vaulted  with  all  thy  congregated  might 

Of  vapours,  from  whose  solid  atmosphere 

Black  rain,  and  fire,  and  hail,  will  burst:  Oh  hear! 

m 

Thou  who  didst  waken  from  his  summer  dreams 

The  blue  Mediterranean,  where  he  lay,  30 

Lulled  by  the  coil  of  his  crystalline  streams. 


SHELLEY  483 

Beside  a  pumice  isle  in  Baiae's  bay, 
And  saw  in  sleep  old  palaces  and  towers 
Quivering  within  the  wave's  intenser  day, 

All  overgrown  with  azure  moss,  and  flowers  35 

So  sweet  the  sense  faints  picturing  them !     Thou 
For  whose  path  the  Atlantic's  level  powers 

Cleave  themselves  into  chasms,  while  far  below 
The  sea-blooms  and  the  oozy  woods  which  wear 

The  sapless  foliage  of  the  ocean  know  40 

Thy  voice,  and  suddenly  grow  grey  with  fear, 
And  tremble  and  despoil  themselves :  Oh  hear ! 

IV 

If  I  were  a  dead  leaf  thou  mightest  bear; 
If  I  were  a  swift  cloud  to  fly  with  thee; 
A  wave  to  pant  beneath  thy  power,  and  share  45 

The  impulse  of  thy  strength,  only  less  free 
Than  thou,  O  uncontrollable !     If  even 
I  were  as  in  my  boyhood,  and  could  be 

The  comrade  of  thy  wanderings  over  heaven, 

As  then,  when  to  outstrip  thy  skiey  speed  50 

Scarce  seemed  a  vision,  —  I  would  ne'er  have  striven 

As  thus  with  thee  in  prayer  in  my  sore  need. 

Oh  lift  me  as  a  wave,  a  leaf,  a  cloud ! 
I  fall  upon  the  thorns  of  life !     I  bleed ! 

A  heavy  weight  of  hours  has  chained  and  bowed  55 

One  too  like  thee  —  tameless,  and  swift,  and  proud. 


484  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 


Make  me  thy  lyre,  even  as  the  forest  is : 

What  if  my  leaves  are  falling  like  its  own? 
The  tumult  of  thy  mighty  harmonies 

Will  take  from  both  a  deep  autumnal  tone,  60 

Sweet  though  in  sadness.     Be  thou,  Spirit  fierce. 
My  spirit !     Be  thou  me,  impetuous  one ! 

Drive  my  dead  thoughts  over  the  universe. 

Like  withered  leaves,  to  quicken  a  new  birth; 
And,  by  the  incantation  of  this  verse,  65 

Scatter,  as  from  an  unextinguished  hearth 
Ashes  and  sparks,  my  words  among  mankind ! 
Be  through  my  lips  to  unawakened  earth 

The  trumpet  of  a  prophecy !     O  Wind, 

If  Winter  comes,  can  Spring  be  far  behind?  70 


A  DEFENSE  OF  POETRY 

What  Poetry  Is 

The  functions  of  the  poetical  faculty  are  twofold: 
by  one  it  creates  new  materials  of  knowledge  and  power 
and  pleasure;  by  the  other  it  engenders  in  the  mind  a 
desire  to  reproduce  and  arrange  them  according  to  a 
certain  rhythm  and  order  which  may  be  called  the  beau- 
tiful and  the  good.  The  cultivation  of  poetry  is  never 
more  to  be  desired  than  at  periods  when,  from  an  ex- 
cess of  the  selfish  and  calculating  principle,  the  accu- 


SHELLEY  485 

mulation  of  the  materials  of  external  life  exceed  the 
quantity  of  the  power  of  assimilating  them  to  the  inter-  10 
nal  laws  of  human  nature.     The  body  has  then  become 
too  unwieldy  for  that  which  animates  it. 

Poetry  is  indeed  something  divine.     It  is  at  once  the 
centre  and  circumference  of  knowledge ;  it  is  that  which 
comprehends  all  science,  and  that  to  which  all  science   15 
must  be  referred.     It  is  at  the  same  time  the  root  and 
blossom  of  all  other  systems  of  thought;  it  is  that  from 
which  all  spring,  and  that  which  adorns  all;  and  that 
which,  if  blighted,  denies  the  fruit  and  the  seed,  and 
withholds  from  the  barren  world  the  nourishment  and  20 
the  succession  of  the  scions  of  the  tree  of  life.     It  is 
the  perfect  and  consummate  surface  and  bloom  of  all 
things;  it  is  as  the  odor  and  the  color  of  the  rose  to  the 
texture  of  the  elements  which  compose  it,  as  the  form 
and  splendor  of  unfaded  beauty  to  the  secrets  of  anatomy  25 
and  corruption.     What  were  virtue,    love,   patriotism, 
friendship;  what  were  the  scenery  of  this  beautiful  uni- 
verse which  we  inhabit;  what  were  our  consolations  on 
this  side  of  the  grave,  and  what  were   our  aspirations 
beyond  it,  if  poetry  did  not  ascend  to  bring  light  and  30 
fire  from  those  eternal  regions  where  the  owl-winged 
faculty  of  calculation  dare   not  ever  soar?     Poetry  is 
not,  like  reasoning,  a  power  to  be  exerted  according  to 
the  determination  of  the  will.     A  man  cannot  say,  "  I 
will  compose  poetry.     The  greatest  poet  even  cannot  35 
say  it;  for  the   mind   in  creation  is  as  a  fading  coal, 
which  some  invisible  influence,  like  an  inconstant  wind, 
awakens   to   transitory  brightness.     This   power  arises 
from  within,  like  the  color  of  a  flower,  which  fades  and 
changes  as  it  is  developed,  and  the  conscious  portions  40 
of  our  natures  are  unprophetic  either  of  its  approach  or 


486  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

its  departure.     Could  this  influence  be  durable  in  its 
original  purity  and  force,  it  is  impossible  to  predict  the 
greatness  of  the  results;  but  when  composition  begins, 
inspiration  is  already  on  the  decline,  and  the  most  glo-  45 
rious  poetry  that  has  ever  been  communicated  to  the 
world  is  probably  a  feeble  shadow  of  the  original  con- 
ceptions of  the  poet.     I  appeal  to  the  greatest  poets  of 
the  present  day,  whether  it  is  not  an  error  to  assert  that 
the  finest  passages  of  poetry  are  produced  by  labor  and  50 
study.     The  toil  and  the  delay  recommended  by  critics 
can  be  justly  interpreted  to  mean  no  more  than  a  careful 
observation  of  the  inspired  moments,  and  an  artificial 
connection  of  the  spaces  between  their  suggestions  by 
the  intermixture  of  conventional  expressions  —  a  neces-  55 
sity  only  imposed  by  the  limitedness  of  the  poetical  fac- 
ulty itself;  for  Milton  conceived  the  Paradise  Lost  as  a 
whole  before  he  executed  it  in  portions.     We  have  his 
own  authority  also  for  the  Muse  having  "dictated"   to 
him  the  "unpremeditated  song."     And  let  this  be  an  60 
answer  to  those  who  would  allege  the  fifty-six  various 
readings  of  the  first  line  of  the  Orlando  Furioso.     Com- 
positions so  produced  are  to  poetry  what  mosaic  is  to 
painting.     This  instinct  and  intuition  of  the  poetical 
faculty  is  still  more  observable  in  the  plastic  and  picto-  65 
rial  arts.    A  great  statue  or  picture  grows  under  the  power 
of  the  artist  as  a  child  in  the  mother's  womb;  and  the 
very  mind  which  directs  the  hands  in  formation  is  in- 
capable of  accounting  to  itself  for  the  origin,  the  gra- 
dations, or  the  media  of  the  process.  70 

Poetry  is  the  record  of  the  best  and  happiest  moments 
of  the  happiest  and  best  minds.  We  are  aware  of  eva- 
nescent visitations  of  thought  and  feeling  sometimes  as- 
sociated with  place  or  person,  sometimes  regarding  our 


SHELLEY  487 

own  mind  alone,  and  always  arising  unforeseen  and  de-   75 
parting  unbidden,  but  elevating  and  delightful  beyond 
all  expression;  so  that  even  in  the  desire  and  the  regret 
they  leave  there  cannot  but  be  pleasure,  participating  as 
it  does  in  the  nature  of  its  object.     It  is,  as  it  were,  the 
interpenetration  of  a  diviner  nature  through  our  own;  80 
but  its  footsteps  are  like  those  of  a  wind  over  the  sea, 
which  the  coming  calm  erases,  and  whose  traces  remain 
only,  as  on  the  wrinkled  sand  which  paves  it.     These 
and  corresponding  conditions  of  being  are  experienced 
principally  by  those  of  the  most  delicate  sensibility  and  85 
the  most  enlarged  imagination;  and  the  state  of  mind 
produced  by  them  is  at  war  with  every  base  desire.     The 
enthusiasm  of  virtue,  love,  patriotism,  and  friendship  is 
essentially  linked  with  such  emotions;  and  whilst  they 
last,  self  appears  as  what  it  is,  an  atom  to  a  universe.   90 
Poets  are  not  only  subject  to  these  experiences  as  spirits 
of  the  most  refined  organization,  but  they  can  color  all 
that  they  combine  with  the  evanescent  hues  of  this  ethe- 
real world.     A  word,  a  trait,  in  the  representation  of  a 
scene  or  a  passion  will  touch  the  enchanted  chord,  and  95 
reanimate,  in  those  who  have  ever  experienced  these 
emotions,  the  sleeping,  the  cold,  the  buried  image  of 
the  past.     Poetry  thus  makes  immortal  all  that  is  best 
and  most  beautiful  in  the  world;  it  arrests  the  vanishing 
apparitions  which  haunt  the  interlunations  of  life,  and,  100 
veiling  them,  or  in  language  or  in  form,  sends  them 
forth  among  mankind,  bearing  sweet  news  of  kindred 
joy  to  those  with  whom   their   sisters   abide  —  abide, 
because  there  is  no  portal  of  expression  from  the  cav- 
erns of  the  spirit  which  they  inhabit  into  the  universe  105 
of  things.     Poetry  redeems  from  decay  the  visitations  of 
the  divinity  in  man. 


JOHN   KEATS 

(1795-1831) 

A  POET'S  ECSTASY 

"Places  of  nestling  green  for  poets  made." 

—  Story  of  Rimini. 

I  STOOD  tip-toe  upon  a  little  hill, 
The  air  was  cooling,  and  so  very  still, 
That  the  sweet  buds  which  with  a  modest  pride 
Pull  droopingly,  in  slanting  curve  aside, 
Their  scantly  leaved,  and  finely  tapering  stems, 
Had  not  yet  lost  those  starry  diadems 
Caught  from  the  early  sobbing  of  the  morn. 
The  clouds  were  pure  and  white  as  flocks  new  shorn, 
And  fresh  from  the  clear  brook;  sweetly  they  slept 
On  the  blue  fields  of  heaven,  and  then  there  crept 
A  little  noiseless  noise  among  the  leaves, 
Born  of  the  very  sigh  that  silence  heaves : 
For,  not  the  faintest  motion  could  be  seen 
Of  all  the  shades  that  slanted  o'er  the  green. 
There  was  wide  wand'ring  for  the  greediest  eye. 
To  peer  about  upon  variety; 
Far  round  the  horizon's  crystal  air  to  skim, 
And  trace  the  dwindled  edges  of  its  brim; 
To  picture  out  the  quaint,  and  curious  bending 
Of  a  fresh  woodland  alley,  never  ending; 
Or  by  the  bowery  clefts,  and  leafy  shelves, 
Guess  where  the  jaunty  streams  refresh  themselves. 
488 


KEATS  489 

I  gazed  awhile  and  felt  as  light,  and  free 

As  though  the  fanning  wings  of  Mercury 

Had  played  upon  my  heels :  I  was  light-hearted,        25 

And  many  pleasures  to  my  vision  started ; 

So  I  straightway  began  to  pluck  a  posey 

Of  luxuries  bright,  milky,  soft,  and  rosey. 

A  bush  of  Mayflowers  with  the  bees  around  them ; 

Ah,  sure,  no  tasteful  nook  would  be  without  them :    30 

And  let  a  lush  laburnum  oversweep  them, 

And  let  long  grass  grow  round  the  roots  to  keep  them 

Moist,  cool,  and  green;  and  shade  the  violets, 

That  they  may  bind  the  mass  in  leafy  nets. 


SLEEP   AND   POETRY 

Art  and  Imitation 

Is  there  so  small  a  range 
In  the  present  strength  of  Manhood,  that  the  high 
Imagination  cannot  freely  fly 
As  she  was  wont  of  old  ?  prepare  her  steeds, 
Paw  up  against  the  light,  and  do  strange  deeds  s 

Upon  the  clouds  ?     Has  she  not  shewn  us  all  ? 
From  the  clear  space  of  ether,  to  the  small 
Breath  of  new  buds  unfolding?     From  the  meaning 
Of  Jove's  large  eyebrow,  to  the  tender  greening 
Of  April  meadows?     Here  her  altar  shone,  10 

E'en  in  this  isle;  and  who  could  paragon 
The  fervid  choir  that  lifted  up  a  noise 
Of  harmony,  to  where  it  aye  will  poise 
Its  mighty  self  of  convoluting  sound, 
Huge  as  a  planet  and  like  that  roll  round,  15 


490  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

Eternally  around  a  dizzy  void? 
Ay,  in  those  days  the  Muses  were  nigh  cloy'd 
With  honors;  nor  had  any  other  care 
Than  to  sing  out  and  sooth  their  wavy  hair. 

Could  all  this  be  forgotten?    Yes,  a  sc[h]ism  20 

Nurtured  in  foppery  and  barbarism, 

Made  great  Apollo  blush  for  this  his  land. 

Men  were  thought  wise  who  could  not  understand 

His  glories:  with  a  puling  infant's  force 

They  sway'd  about  upon  a  rocking  horse,  25 

And  thought  it  Pegasus.     Ah,  dismal  soul'd ! 

The  winds  of  heaven  blew,  the  ocean  roll'd 

Its  gathering  waves  —  ye  felt  it  not.     The  blue 

Bared  its  eternal  bosom,  and  the  dew 

Of  summer  nights  collected  still  to  make  30 

The  morning  precious :  beauty  was  awake ! 

Why  were  ye  not  awake?    But  ye  were  dead 

To  things  ye  knew  not  of,  —  were  closely  wed 

To  musty  laws  lined  out  with  wretched  rule 

And  compass  vile :  so  that  ye  taught  a  school  35 

Of  dolts  to  smooth,  inlay,  and  clip,  and  fit, 

Till,  like  the  certain  wands  of  Jacob's  wit 

Their  verses  tallied.     Easy  was  the  task: 

A  thousand  handicraftsmen  wore  the  mask 

Of  Poesy.  40 

-^ 

ON  FIRST  LOOKING  INTO  CHAPMAN'S  HOMER 

Much  have  I  travelled  in  the  realms  of  gold, 
And  many  goodly  states  and  kingdoms  seen; 
Round  many  western  islands  have  I  been 
Which  bards  in  fealty  to  Apollo  hold. 


KEATS  491 

Oft  of  one  wide  expanse  had  I  been  told  5 

That  deep-browed  Homer  ruled  as  his  demesne : 

Yet  did  I  never  breathe  its  pure  serene 

Till  I  heard  Chapman  speak  out  loud  and  bold : 

Then  felt  I  like  some  watcher  of  the  skies 

When  a  new  planet  swims  into  his  ken;  10 

Or  like  stout  Cortez  when  with  eagle  eyes 

He  stared  at  the  Pacific  —  and  all  his  men 

Looked  at  each  other  with  a  wild  surmise  — 

Silent,  upon  a  peak  in  Darien. 


ENDYMION 

Beauty 

A  THING  of  beauty  is  a  joy  for  ever : 

Its  loveliness  increases;  it  will  never 

Pass  into  nothingness;  but  still  will  keep 

A  bower  quiet  for  us,  and  a  sleep 

Full  of  sweet  dreams,  and  health,  and  quiet  breathing    5 

Therefore,  on  every  morrow,  are  we  wreathing 

A  flowery  band  to  bind  us  to  the  earth. 

Spite  of  despondence,  of  the  inhuman  dearth 

Of  noble  natures,  of  the  gloomy  days, 

Of  all  the  unhealthy  and  o'er-darkened  ways  10 

Made  for  our  searching :  yes,  in  spite  of  all. 

Some  shape  of  beauty  moves  away  the  pall 

From  our  dark  spirits.     Such  the  sun,  the  moon, 

Trees  old  and  young,  sprouting  a  shady  boon 

For  simple  sheep;  and  such  are  daffodils  15 

With  the  green  world  they  live  in;  and  clear  rills 

That  for  themselves  a  cooling  covert  make 

'Gainst  the  hot  season;  the  mid-forest  brake, 


492  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

Rich  with  a  sprinkling  of  fair  musk-rose  blooms; 
And  such  too  is  the  grandeur  of  the  dooms 
We  have  imagined  for  the  mighty  dead; 
All  lovely  tales  that  we  have  heard  or  read : 
An  endless  fountain  of  immortal  drink, 
Pouring  unto  us  from  the  heaven's  brink. 


ODE  ON  A  GRECIAN   URN 


Thou  still  unravished  bride  of  quietness ! 

Thou  foster-child  of  Silence  and  slow  Time, 
Sylvan  historian,  who  canst  thus  express 

A  flowery  tale  more  sweetly  than  our  rhyme : 
What  leaf-fringed  legend  haunts  about  thy  shape 

Of  deities  or  mortals,  or  of  both, 
In  Tempe  or  the  dales  of  Arcady? 

What  men  or  gods  are  these?     What  maidens  loath? 
What  mad  pursuit?     What  struggle  to  escape? 

What  pipes  and  timbrels?     What  wild  ecstasy?         i 

n 

Heard  melodies  are  sweet,  but  those  unheard 

Are  sweeter;  therefore,  ye  soft  pipes,  play  on; 
Not  to  the  sensual  ear,  but,  more  endeared. 

Pipe  to  the  spirit  ditties  of  no  tone: 
Fair  youth,  beneath  the  trees,  thou  canst  not  leave        i 

Thy  song,  nor  ever  can  those  trees  be  bare; 
Bold  Lover,  never,  never  canst  thou  kiss. 
Though  winning  near  the  goal  —  yet,  do  not  grieve; 
She  cannot  fade,  though  thou  hast  not  thy  bliss, 

For  ever  wilt  thou  love,  and  she  be  fair !  a 


KEATS  493 

in 

Ah,  happy,  happy  boughs !  that  cannot  shed 

Your  leaves,  nor  ever  bid  the  Spring  adieu; 
And,  happy  melodist,  unwearied, 

For  ever  piping  songs  for  ever  new; 
More  happy  love !  more  happy,  happy  love !  25 

For  ever  warm  and  still  to  be  enjoyed. 
For  ever  panting  and  for  ever  young; 
All  breathing  human  passion  far  above. 

That  leaves  a  heart  high  sorrowful  and  cloyed, 
A  burning  forehead,  and  a  parching  tongue.        30 

rv 

Who  are  these  coming  to  the  sacrifice? 

To  what  green  altar,  O  mysterious  priest, 
Lead'st  thou  that  heifer  lowing  at  the  skies, 

And  all  her  silken  flanks  with  garlands  drest? 
What  little  town  by  river  or  sea-shore,  35 

Or  mountain-built  with  peaceful  citadel, 
Is  emptied  of  its  folk,  this  pious  morn? 
And,  little  town,  thy  streets  for  evermore 

W^ill  silent  be;  and  not  a  soul  to  tell 

Why  thou  art  desolate,  can  e'er  return.  40 


O  Attic  shape !     Fair  attitude !  with  brede 
Of  marble  men  and  maidens  overwrought, 

With  forest  branches  and  the  trodden  weed; 
Thou,  silent  form !  dost  tease  us  out  of  thought 

As  doth  eternity.     Cold  Pastoral !  45 

When  old  age  shall  this  generation  waste, 


494  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

Thou  shalt  remain,  in  midst  of  other  woe 
Than  ours,  a  friend  to  man,  to  whom  thou  say'st: 
'Beauty  is  truth,  truth  beauty,  — that  is  all 

Ye  know  on  earth,  and  all  ye  need  to  know.'  50 


ADDRESSED   TO   HAYDON 

Great  spirits  now  on  earth  are  sojourning: 
He  of  the  cloud,  the  cataract,  the  lake. 
Who  on  Helvellyn's  summit,  wide  awake, 
Catches  his  freshness  from  Archangel's  wing: 
He  of  the  rose,  the  violet,  the  spring, 
The  social  smile  the  chain  for  Freedom's  sake 
And  lo !  whose  steadfastness  would  never  take 
A  meaner  sound  than  Raphael's  whispering. 
And  other  spirits  there  are,  standing  apart 
Upon  the  forehead  of  the  age  to  come; 
These,  these  will  give  the  world  another  heart. 
And  other  pulses.     Hear  ye  not  the  hum 
Of  mighty  workings?  — 
Listen  awhile,  ye  nations,  and  be  dumb. 


ON   THE   GRASSHOPPER   AND   CRICKET 

The  poetry  of  earth  is  never  dead : 

When  all  the  birds  are  faint  with  the  hot  sun, 

And  hide  in  cooling  trees,  a  voice  will  run 

From  hedge  to  hedge  about  the  new-mown  mead : 

That  is  the  grasshopper's  —  he  takes  the  lead 

In  summer  luxury,  — he  has  never  done 

With  his  delights,  for,  when  tired  out  with  fun, 

He  rests  at  ease  beneath  some  pleasant  weed. 


KEATS  495 

The  poetry  of  earth  is  ceasing  never: 

On  a  lone  winter  evening,  when  the  frost  lo 

Has  wrought  a  silence,  from  the  stove  there  shrills 

The  Cricket's  song,  in  warmth  increasing  ever, 

And  seems  to  one  in  drowsiness  half  lost, 

The  Grasshopper's  among  some  grassy  hills. 


THE   HUMAN    SEASONS 

Four  Seasons  fill  the  measure  of  the  year; 

There  are  four  seasons  in  the  mind  of  man: 

He  has  his  lusty  Spring,  when  fancy  clear 

Takes  in  all  beauty  with  an  easy  span: 

He  has  his  summer,  when  luxuriously  5 

Spring's  honeyed  cud  of  youthful  thought  he  loves 

To  ruminate,  and  by  such  dreaming  high 

Is  nearest  unto  heaven:  quiet  coves 

His  soul  has  in  its  Autumn,  when  his  wings 

He  furleth  close;  contented  so  to  look  10 

On  mists  in  idleness  —  to  let  fair  things 

Pass  by  unheeded  as  a  threshold  brook. 

He  has  his  Winter  too  of  pale  misfeature. 

Or  else  he  would  forego  his  mortal  nature. 


TO   LEIGH   HUNT 

Glory  and  loveliness  have  passed  away; 

For  if  we  wander  out  in  early  morn. 

No  wreathed  incense  do  we  see  upborne 

Into  the  east,  to  meet  the  smiling  day: 

No  crowd  of  nymphs  soft  voic'd  and  young,  and  gay,  5 


496  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

In  woven  basket  bringing  ears  of  corn, 
Roses,  and  pinks,  and  violets,  to  adorn 
The  shrine  of  Flora  in  her  early  May. 
But  there  are  left  delights  as  high  as  these 
And  I  shall  ever  bless  my  destiny, 
That  in  a  time,  when  under  pleasant  trees 
Pan  is  no  longer  sought,  I  feel  a  free 
And  leafy  luxury,  seeing  I  could  please 
With  these  poor  offerings,  a  man  like  thee? 


EPISTLE  TO  MY  BROTHER  GEORGE 

The  Bard  Speaks 

What  though  I  leave  this  dull  and  earthly  mould, 

Yet  shall  my  spirit  lofty  converse  hold 

With  after  times.  —  The  patriot  shall  feel 

My  stern  alarum,  and  unsheath  his  steel; 

Or  in  the  senate  thunder  out  my  numbers,  5 

To  startle  princes  from  their  easy  slumbers. 

The  sage  will  mingle  with  each  moral  theme 

My  happy  thoughts  sententious:  he  will  teem 

With  lofty  periods  when  my  verses  fire  him, 

And  then  I'll  stoop  from  heaven  to  inspire  him.         10 

Lays  have  I  left  of  such  a  dear  delight 

That  maids  will  sing  them  on  their  bridal-night. 

Gay  villagers,  upon  a  morn  of  May, 

When  they  have  tired  their  gentle  limbs  with  play, 

And  formed  a  snowy  circle  on  the  grass,  15 

And  placed  in  midst  of  all  that  lovely  lass 

Who  chosen  is  their  queen,  — with  her  fine  head 

Crowned  with  flowers  purple,  white,  and  red : 


KEATS  497 

For  there  the  lily  and  the  musk-rose  sighing, 

Are  emblems  true  of  hapless  lovers  dying :  20 

Between  her  breasts,  that  never  yet  felt  trouble, 

A  bunch  of  violets  full  blown,  and  double, 

Serenely  sleep :  —  she  from  a  casket  takes 

A  little  book,  — and  then  a  joy  awakes 

About  each  youthful  heart,  — with  stifled  cries,  25 

And  rubbing  of  white  hands,  and  sparkling  eyes: 

For  she's  to  read  a  tale  of  hopes  and  fears; 

One  that  I  fostered  in  my  youthful  years : 

The  pearls,  that  on  each  glistening  circlet  sleep, 

Gush  ever  and  anon  with  silent  creep,  30 

Lured  by  the  innocent  dimples.     To  sweet  rest 

Shall  the  dear  babe,  upon  its  mother's  breast, 

Be  lulled  with  songs  of  mine.     Fair  world,  adieu! 

Thy  dales  and  hills  are  fading  from  my  view: 

Swiftly  I  mount,  upon  wide-spreading  pinions,  35 

Far  from  the  narrow  bounds  of  thy  dominions. 

Full  joy  I  feel,  while  thus  I  cleave  the  air. 

That  my  soft  verse  will  charm  thy  daughters  fair, 

And  warm  thy  sons ! 

2K 


THOMAS    CARLYLE 

(1795-1881) 

ESSAY  ON   BURNS 
A  True  Poet-Soul 

Burns  first  came  upon  the  world  as  a  prodigy;  and 
was,  in  that  character,  entertained  by  it,  in  the  usual 
fashion,  with  loud,  vague,  tumultuous  wonder,  speedily 
subsiding  into  censure  and  neglect;  till  his  early  and 
most  mournful  death  again  awakened  an  enthusiasm  for  j 
him,  which,  especially  as  there  was  now  nothing  to  be 
done,  and  much  to  be  spoken,  has  prolonged  itself  even 
to  our  own  time.  It  is  true,  the  'nine  days  '  have  long 
since  elapsed;  and  the  very  continuance  of  this  clamor 
proves  that  Burns  was  no  vulgar  wonder.  Accordingly,  10 
even  in  sober  judgments,  where  as  years  passed  by,  he 
has  come  to  rest  more  and  more  exclusively  on  his  own 
intrinsic  merits,  and  may  now  be  well-nigh  shorn  of  that 
casual  radiance,  he  appears  not  only  as  a  true  British 
poet,  but  as  one  of  the  most  considerable  British  men  15 
of  the  eighteenth  century.  Let  it  not  be  objected  that 
he  did  little.  He  did  much,  if  we  consider  where  and 
how.  If  the  work  performed  was  small,  we  must  remem- 
ber that  he  had  his  very  materials  to  discover;  for  the 
metal  he  worked  in  lay  hid  under  the  desert  moor,  where  20 
no  eye  but  his  had  guessed  its  existence;  and  we  may 
almost  say,  that  with  his  own  hand  he  had  to  construct 

498 


CARL  YLE  499 

the  tools  for  fashioning  it.  For  he  found  himself  in 
deepest  obscurity,  without  help,  Avithout  instruction, 
without  model;  or  with  models  only  of  the  meanest  sort.  25 
An  educated  man  stands,  as  it  were,  in  the  midst  of  a 
boundless  arsenal  and  magazine,  filled  with  all  the 
weapons  and  engines  which  man's  skill  has  been  able  to 
devise  from  the  earliest  time;  and  he  works,  accord- 
ingly, with  a  strength  borrowed  from  all  past  ages.  How  30 
different  is  his  state  who  stands  on  the  outside  of  that 
storehouse,  and  feels  that  its  gates  must  be  stormed,  or 
remain  forever  shut  against  him !  His  means  are  the 
commonest  and  rudest;  the  mere  work  done  is  no  meas- 
ure of  his  strength.  A  dwarf  behind  his  steam-engine  35 
may  remove  mountains;  but  no  dwarf  will  hew  them 
down  with  a  pickaxe;  and  he  must  be  a  Titan  that 
hurls  them  abroad  with  his  arms. 

It  is  in  this  last  shape  that  Burns  presents  himself. 
Born  in  an  age  the  most  prosaic  Britain  had  yet  seen,  40 
and  in  a  condition  the  most  disadvantageous,  where  his 
mind,  if  it  accomplished  aught,  must  accomplish  it 
under  the  pressure  of  continual  bodily  toil,  nay,  of 
penury  and  desponding  apprehension  of  the  worst  evils, 
and  with  no  furtherance  but  such  knowledge  as  dwells  45 
in  a  poor  man's  hut,  and  the  rhymes  of  a  Ferguson  or 
Ramsay  for  his  standard  of  beauty,  he  sinks  not  under 
all  these  impediments:  through  the  fogs  and  darkness 
of  that  obscure  region,  his  lynx  eye  discerns  the  true 
relations  of  the  world  and  human  life;  he  grows  into  in-  50 
tellectual  strength,  and  trains  himself  into  intellectual 
expertness.  Impelled  by  the  expansive  movement  of 
his  own  irrepressible  soul,  he  struggles  forward  into  the 
general  view;  and  with  haughty  modesty  lays  down 
before  us,  as  the  fruit  of  his  labor,  a  gift  which  Time  55 


500  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

has  now  pronounced  imperishable.  Add  to  all  this  that 
his  darksome  drudging  childhood  and  youth  was  by  far 
the  kindliest  era  of  his  whole  life,  and  that  he  died  in 
his  thirty-seventh  year,  and  then  ask  if  it  be  strange 
that  his  poems  are  imperfect,  and  of  small  extent,  or  60 
that  his  genius  attained  no  mastery  in  its  art.  Alas! 
his  sun  shone  as  through  a  tropical  tornado;  and  the  pale 
shadow  of  death  eclipsed  it  at  noon !  Shrouded  in  such 
baleful  vapors,  the  genius  of  Burns  was  never  seen  in 
clear  azure  splendor,  enlightening  the  world :  but  some  65 
beams  from  it  did,  by  fits,  pierce  through;  and  it  tinted 
those  clouds  with  rainbow  and  orient  colors,  into  a  glory 
and  stern  grandeur,  which  men  silently  gazed  on  with 
wonder  and  tears! 

We  are  anxious  not  to  exaggerate;  for  it  is  exposition  70 
rather  than  admiration  that  our  readers  require  of  us 
here;  and  yet  to  avoid  some  tendency  to  that  side  is  no 
easy  matter.     We  love  Burns,  and  we  pity  him;  and 
love  and  pity  are  prone  to  magnify.     Criticism,  it  is 
sometimes  thought,  should  be  a  cold  business:  we  are  75 
not  so  sure  of  this;  but,  at  all  events,  our  concern  with 
Burns  is  not  exclusively  that  of  critics.     True  and  genial 
as  his  poetry  must  appear,  it  is  not  chiefly  as  a  poet,  but 
as  a  man,  that  he  interests  and  affects  us.     He  was  often 
advised  to  write  a  tragedy :  time  and  means  were  not  80 
lent  him  for  this;  but  through  life  he  enacted  a  tragedy, 
and  one  of  the  deepest.     We  question  whether  the  world 
has  since  witnessed  so  utterly  sad  a  scene;  whether  Na- 
poleon himself,  left  to  brawl  with  Sir  Hudson  Lowe,  and 
perish  on  his  rock,  'amid  the  melancholy  main,'  pre-  85 
sented  to  the  reflecting  mind  such  a  'spectacle  of  pity 
and  fear '  as  did  this  intrinsically  nobler,  gentler,  and 
perhaps  greater  soul,  wasting  itself  away  in  a  hopeless 


CARLYLE  501 

Struggle  with  base  entanglements,  which  coiled  closer 
and  closer  round  him,  till  only  death  opened  him  an  90 
outlet.     Conquerors  are  a  class  of  men  with  whom,  for 
most  part,  the  world  could  well  dispense;  nor  can  the 
hard  intellect,  the  unsympathizing  loftiness,  and  high 
but  selfish  enthusiasm  of  such  persons  inspire  us  in  gen- 
eral with  any  affection;  at  best  it  may  excite  amazement;  95 
and  their  fall,  like  that  of  a  pyramid,  will  be  beheld  with 
a  certain  sadness  and  awe.     But  a  true  poet,  a  man  in 
whose  heart  resides  some  effluence  of  wisdom,  some  tone 
of  the  'Eternal  Melodies,'  is  the  most  precious  gift  that 
can  be  bestowed  on  a  generation :  we  see  in  him  a  freer,  100 
purer  development  of  whatever  is  noblest  in  ourselves; 
his  life  is  a  rich  lesson  to  us;  and  we  mourn  his  death 
as  that  of  a  benefactor  who  loved  and  taught  us. 

Such  a  gift  had  Nature,  in  her  bounty,  bestowed  on 
us  in  Robert  Burns;  but  with  queenlike  indifference  she  105 
cast  it  from  her  hand,  like  a  thing  of  no  moment;  and 
it  was  defaced  and  torn  asunder,  as  an  idle  bauble, 
before  we  recognized  it.     To  the  ill-starred  Bums  was 
given  the  power  of  making  man's  life  more  venerable, 
but  that  of  wisely  guiding  his  own  life  was  not  given,  no 
Destiny,  —  for  so  in  our  ignorance  we  must  speak,  — 
his  faults,  the  faults  of  others,  proved  too  hard  for  him; 
and  that  spirit,  which  might  have  soared  could  it  but 
have  walked,  soon  sank  to  the  dust,  its  glorious  faculties 
trodden  under  foot  in  the  blossom;  and  died,  we  may  115 
almost  say,  without  ever  having  lived.     And  so  kind 
and  warm  a  soul;  so  full  of  inborn  riches,  of  love  to  all 
living  and  lifeless  things !     How  his  heart  flows  out  in 
sympathy  over  universal  Nature,   and  in  her  bleakest 
provinces    discerns   a   beauty   and   a    meaning !     The  120 
'Daisy'  falls  not  unheeded  under  his  ploughshare;  nor 


502  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

the  ruined  nest  of  that  'wee,  cowering,  timorous  beastie,' 
cast  forth,  after  all  its  provident  pains,  to  'thole  the 
sleety  dribble  and  cranreuch  cauld.'     The  'hoar  visage  ' 
of  Winter  delights  hira;  he  dwells  with  a  sad  and  oft- 125 
returning  fondness  in  these  scenes  of  solemn  desolation; 
but  the  voice  of  the  tempest  becomes  an  anthem  to  his 
ears;  he  loves  to  walk  in  the  sounding  woods,  for  'it 
raises  his  thoughts  to  Him  that  walketh  on  the  wings 
of  the  wind. '     A  true  poet-soul,  for  it  needs  but  to  be  130 
struck,  and  the  sound  it  yields  will  be  music !     But  ob- 
serve him  chiefly  as  he  mingles  with  his  brother  men. 
What    warm,    all-comprehending    fellow-feeling;    what 
trustful,  boundless  love;  what  generous  exaggeration  of 
the   object   loved !     His  rustic   friend,    his   nut-brown  135 
maiden,  are  no  longer  mean  and  homely,  but  a  hero  and 
a  queen,  whom  he  prizes  as  the  paragons  of  earth.     The 
rough  scenes  of  Scottish  life,  not  seen  by  him  in  any 
Arcadian  illusion,  but  in  the  rude  contradiction,  in  the 
smoke  and  soil  of  a  too  harsh  reality,  are  still  lovely  to  140 
him.     Poverty  is  indeed  his  companion,  but  Love  also, 
and  Courage;  the  simple  feelings,  the  worth,  the  noble- 
ness, that  dwell  under  the  straw  roof,  are  dear  and  ven- 
erable to  his  heart,  and  thus  over  the  lowest  provinces  of 
man's  existence  he  pours  the  glory  of  his  own  soul;  and  145 
they  rise,  in  shadow  and  sunshine,  softened  and  bright- 
ened into  a  beauty  which  other  eyes  discern  not  in  the 
highest.     He  has  a  just  self -consciousness  which  too 
often  degenerates  into  pride;  yet  it  is  a  noble  pride,  for 
defence,  not  for  offence;  no  cold  suspicious  feeling,  but  150 
a  frank  and  social  one.     The  peasant  poet  bears  him- 
self, we  might  say,  like  a  king  in  exile :  he  is  cast  among 
the  low,  and  feels  himself  equal  to  the  highest;  yet  he 
claims  no  rank,  that  none  may  be  disputed  to  him.     The 


CARLYLE  503 

forward  he  can  repel,  the-  supercilious  he  can  subdue;  155 
pretensions  of  wealth  or  ancestry  are  of  no  avail  with 
him;  there  is  a  fire  in  that  dark  eye,  under  which  the 
'insolence  of  condescension'   cannot  thrive.      In  his 
abasement,  in  his  extreme  need,  he  forgets  not  for  a 
moment  the  majesty  of  poetry  and  manhood.     And  yet,  160 
far  as  he  feels  himself  above  common  men,   he  wan- 
ders not  apart  from  them,  but  mixes  warmly  in  their  in- 
terests; nay,  throws  himself  into  their  arms,  and,  as  it 
were,  entreats  them  to  love  him.     It  is  moving  to  see 
how,  in  his  darkest  despondency,  this  proud  being  still  165 
seeks  relief  from  friendship;  imbosoms  himself,  often  to 
the  unworthy;  and,  amid  tears,  strains  to  his  glowing 
heart  a  heart  that  knows  only  the  name  of  friendship. 
And  yet  he  was  'quick  to  learn; '  a  man  of  keen  vision, 
before  whom  common  disguises  afforded  no  conceal- 170 
ment.     His  understanding  saw  through  the  hollowness 
even  of  accomplished  deceivers;  but  there  was  a  gener- 
ous credulity  in  his  heart.     And  so  did  our  peasant  show 
himself  among  us;   *a   soul    like   an  yEolian  harp,   in 
whose  strings  the  vulgar  wind,  as  it  passed  through  them,  175 
changed  itself  into  articulate  melody. '     And  this  was  he 
for  whom  the  world  found  no  fitter  business  than  quar- 
relling with  smugglers  and  vintners,  computing  excise- 
dues  upon   tallow,  and   gauging   ale-barrels !     In  such 
toils  was  that  mighty  spirit  sorrowfully  wasted;  and  a  180 
hundred  years  may  pass  on,  before  another  such  is  given 
us  to  waste. 


504  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

SARTOR  RESARTUS 
The  Everlasting  Yea 

'Temptations  in  the  Wilderness ! '  exclaims  Teufels- 
drockh :  'Have  we  not  all  to  be  tried  with  such?  Not  so 
'easily  can  the  old  Adam,  lodged  in  us  by  birth,  be  dis- 
*  possessed.  Our  Life  is  compassed  round  with  Neces- 
*sity;  yet  is  the  meaning  of  Life  itself  no  other  than  5 
'Freedom,  than  Voluntary  Force:  thus  have  we  a  war- 
*fare;  in  the  beginning,  especially,  a  hard-fought  battle. 
'For  the  God-given  mandate,  Work  thou  in  Welldoing, 
'lies  mysteriously  written,  in  Promethean  Prophetic 
'Characters,  in  our  hearts;  and  leaves  us  no  rest,  night  10 
'or  day,  till  it  be  deciphered  and  obeyed;  till  it  bum 
'forth,  in  our  conduct,  a  visible,  acted  Gospel  of  Free- 
'dom.  And  as  the  clay-given  mandate.  Eat  thou  and  be 
'filled,  at  the  same  time  persuasively  proclaims  itself 
'through  every  nerve,  — must  not  there  be  a  confusion,  15 
'a  contest,  before  the  better  Influence  can  become  the 
'upper? 

'To  me  nothing  seems  more  natural  than  that  the  Son 
'of  Man,  when  such  God-given  mandate  first  propheti- 
'cally  stirs  within  him,  and  the  Clay  must  now  be  van-  20 
'quished  or  vanquish,  — should  be  carried  of  the  spirit 
'into  grim  Solitudes,  and  there  fronting  the  Tempter  do 
'grimmest  battle  with  him;  defiantly  setting  him  at 
'naught,  till  he  yield  and  fly.  Name  it  as  we  choose: 
'with  or  without  visible  Devil,  whether  in  the  natural  25 
'Desert  of  rocks  and  sands,  or  in  the  populous  moral 
'Desert  of  selfishness  and  baseness,  — to  such  Tempta- 
'tion  are  we  all  called.  L^nhappy  if  we  are  not!  Un- 
'happy  if  we  are  but  Half-men,  in  whom  that  divine 


CARLYLE  505 

'handwriting  has  never  blazed  forth,  all-subduing,   in  30 
'true  sun-splendour;  but  quivers  dubiously  amid  meaner 
'lights:  or  smoulders,  in  dull  pain,  in  darkness,  under 
'earthly  vapours!  —  Our  Wilderness  is  the  wide  World 
'in  an  Atheistic  Century;  our  Forty  Days  are  long  years 
'of   suffering  and  fasting:    nevertheless,   to  these  also  35 
'comes  an  end.     Yes,  to  me  also  was  given,  if  not  Vic- 
*tory,  yet  the  consciousness  of  Battle,  and  the  resolve  to 
'persevere  therein  while  life  or  faculty  is  left.     To  me 
'also,  entangled  in  the  enchanted  forests,   demon-peo- 
'pled,  doleful  of  sight  and  of  sound,  it  was  given,  after  40 
'weariest  wanderings,    to  work  out   my  way  into   the 
'higher  sunlit  slopes  —  of  that  Mountain  which  has  no 
'summit,  or  whose  summit  is  in  Heaven  only ! '  .  .  . 

'The  hot  Harmattan  wind  had  raged  itself  out;  its 
'howl  went  silent  within  me;  and  the  long-deafened  soul  45 
'could  now  hear.     I  paused  in  my  wild  wanderings;  and 
'sat  me  down  to  wait,  and  consider;  for  it  was  as  if  the 
'hour  of  change  drew  nigh.     I  seemed  to  surrender,  to 
'renounce  utterly,  and  say:  Fly,  then,  false  shadows  of 
'Hope;  I  will  chase  you  no  more,  I  will  believe  you  no  50 
'more.     And  ye  too,  haggard  spectres  of  Fear,  I  care 
'not  for  you;  ye  too  are  all  shadows  and  a  lie.     Let  me 
'rest  here:  for  I  am  way-weary  and  life-weary;  I  will 
'rest  here,  were  it  but  to  die :  to  die  or  to  live  is  alike 
'to  me;  alike  insignificant.' — And  again:  'Here,  then,    55 
'as  I  lay  in  that  Centre  of  Indifference;  cast,  doubt- 
*less  by  benignant  upper  Influence,  into  a  healing  sleep, 
'the  heavy  dreams  rolled  gradually  away,  and  I  awoke  to 
'a  new  Heaven  and  a  new  earth.     The  first  preliminary 
'moral  Act,  Annihilation  of  Self   {Selbst-todtiing),   had  60 
'been  happily  accomplished;  and  my  mind's  eyes  were 
'now  unsealed,  and  its  hands  ungyved.'  .  .  . 


506  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

'Beautiful  it  was  to  sit  there,  as  in  my  skyey  Tent 
musing  and  meditating;  on  the  high  table-land,  in  front 
of  the  Mountains;  over  me,  as  roof,  the  azure  Dome,  65 
and  around  me,  for  walls,  four  azure-flowing  curtains, 
—  namely,  of  the  Four  azure  Winds,  on  whose  bottom- 
fringes  also  I  have  seen  gilding.  And  then  to  fancy 
the  fair  Castles  that  stood  sheltered  in  these  Mountain 
hollows;  with  their  green  flower-lawns,  and  white  dames  70 
and  damosels,  lovely  enough :  or  better  still,  the  straw- 
roofed  Cottages,  wherein  stood  many  a  Mother  baking 
bread,  with  her  children  round  her :  —  all  hidden  and 
protectingly  folded-up  in  the  valley-folds;  yet  there 
and  alive,  as  sure  as  if  I  beheld  them.  Or  to  see,  as  75 
well  as  fancy,  the  nine  Towns  and  Villages,  that  lay 
round  my  mountain-seat,  which,  in  still  weather,  were 
wont  to  speak  to  me  (by  their  steeple-bells)  with  metal 
tongue;  and,  in  almost  all  weather,  proclaimed  their 
vitality  by  repeated  Smoke-clouds;  whereon,  as  on  a  80 
culinary  horologe,  I  might  read  the  hour  of  the  day. 
For  it  was  the  smoke  of  cookery,  as  kind  housewives 
at  morning,  midday,  eventide,  were  boiling  their  hus- 
bands' kettles;  and  ever  a  blue  pillar  rose  up  into  the 
air,  successively  or  simultaneously,  from  each  of  the  85 
nine,  saying,  as  plainly  as  smoke  could  say:  Such  and 
such  a  meal  is  getting  ready  here.  Not  uninteresting! 
For  you  have  the  whole  Borough,  with  all  its  love- 
makings  and  scandal-mongeries,  contentions  and  con- 
tentments, as  in  miniature,  and  could  cover  it  all  90 
with  your  hat.  —  If  in  my  wide  Wayfarings,  I  had 
learned  to  look  into  the  business  of  the  World  in  its 
details,  here  perhaps  was  the  place  for  combining 
it  into  general  propositions,  and  deducing  inferences 
therefrom.  95 


CARL  YLE  507 

'Often  also  could  I  see  the  black  Tempest  marching 
*  in  anger  through  the  Distance:  round  some  Schreck- 
*horn,  as  yet  grim-blue,  would  the  eddying  vapour 
'gather,  and  there  tumultuously  eddy,  and  flow  down 
Mike  a  mad  witch's  hair;  till,  after  a  space,  it  vanished  100 
'and,  in  the  clear  sunbeam,  your  Schreckhorn  stood 
'smiling  grim-white,  for  the  vapour  had  held  snow. 
'How  thou  fermentest  and  elaborates!,  in  thy  great  fer- 
'menting-vat  and  laboratory  of  an  Atmosphere,  of  a 
'World,  O  Nature!  —  Or  what  is  Nature?  Ha!  why  do  105 
'I  not  name  thee  God?  Art  not  thou  the  "Living  Gar- 
'ment  of  God"?  O  Heavens,  is  it,  in  very  deed.  He, 
'then,  that  ever  speaks  through  thee;  that  lives  and  loves 
'in  thee,  that  lives  and  loves  in  me? 

'Fore-shadows,  call  them  rather  fore-splendours,  of  no 
'that  Truth,  and  Beginning  of  Truths,  fell  mysteriously 
'over  my  soul.  Sweeter  than  Dayspring  to  the  Ship- 
' wrecked  in  Nova  Zembla;  ah,  like  the  mother's  voice 
'to  her  little  child  that  strays  bewildered,  weeping,  in 
'unknown  tumults;  like  soft  streamings  of  celestial  music  115 
'to  my  too- exasperated  heart,  came  that  Evangel.  The 
'Universe  is  not  dead  and  demoniacal,  a  charnel-house 
'with  spectres;  but  godlike,  and  my  Father's! 

'With  other  eyes,  too,  could  I  now  look  upon  my  fel- 
'low  man:  with  an  infinite  Love,  an  infinite  Pity.  Poor,  120 
'wandering,  wayward  man!  Art  thou  not  tried,  and 
'beaten  with  stripes,  even  as  I  am?  Ever,  whether 
'thou  bear  the  royal  mantle  or  the  beggar's  gabardine, 
'art  thou  not  so  weary,  so  heavy-laden;  and  thy  Bed  of 
'Rest  is  but  a  Grave.  O  my  Brother,  my  Brother,  why  125 
'cannot  I  shelter  thee  in  my  bosom,  and  wipe  away  all 
'tears  from  thy  eyes!  —  Truly,  the  din  of  many-voiced 
'Life,  which,  in  this  solitude,  with  the  mind's  organ,  I 


508  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARS'OLD 

'could  hear,  was  no  longer  a  maddening  discord,  but  a 
'melting  one;  like  inarticulate  cries,  and  sobbings  of  a  130 
'dumb  creature,  which  in  the  ear  of  Heaven  are  prayers. 
'The  poor  Earth,  with  her  poor  joys,  was  now  my  needy 
'Mother,  not  my  cruel  Stepdame;  Man,  with  his  so  mad 
'  Wants  and  so  mean  Endeavours,  had  become  the  dearer 
'to  me;  and  even  for  his  sufferings  and  his  sins,  I  now  135 
'first  named  him  Brother.  Thus  was  I  standing  in  the 
'porch  of  that  ^^ Sanctuary  of  Sorrow;"  by  strange, 
'steep  ways  had  I  too  been  guided  thither;  and  ere  long 
'its  sacred  gates  would  open,  and  the  ^^ Divine  Depth  of 
^Sorrow"  lie  disclosed  to  me.'  140 


DANTE 

Giotto's  Portrait 

Many  volumes  have  been  written  by  way  of  commen- 
tary on  Dante  and  his  Book:  yet,  on  the  whole,  with  no 
great  result.  His  Biography  is,  as  it  were,  irrecoverably 
lost  for  us.  An  unimportant,  wandering,  sorrowstricken 
man,  not  much  note  was  taken  of  him  while  he  lived; 
and  the  most  of  that  has  vanished,  in  the  long  space  that 
now  intervenes.  It  is  five  centuries  since  he  ceased  writ- 
ing and  living  here.  After  all  commentaries,  the  Book 
itself  is  mainly  what  we  know  of  him.  The  Book;  — 
and  one  might  add  that  Portrait  commonly  attributed  to 
Giotto,  which,  looking  on  it,  you  cannot  help  inclining 
to  think  genuine,  whoever  did  it.  To  me  it  is  a  most 
touching  face;  perhaps  of  all  faces  that  I  know,  the 
most  so.  Lonely  there,  painted  as  on  vacancy,  with  the 
simple  laurel  wound  round  it;  the  deathless  sorrow  and 


CARLYLE  509 

pain,  the  known  victory  which  is  also  deathless ;  —  sig- 
nificant of  the  whole  history  of  Dante !  I  think  it  is  the 
mournfulest  face  that  ever  was  painted  from  reality;  an 
altogether  tragic,  heart-affecting  face.  There  is  in  it,  as 
foundation  of  it,  the  softness,  tenderness,  gentle  affec-  20 
tion  as  of  a  child;  but  all  this  is  as  if  congealed  into 
sharp  contradiction,  into  abnegation,  isolation,  proud 
hopeless  pain.  A  soft  ethereal  soul  looking-out  so 
stern,  implacable,  grim-trenchant,  as  from  imprison- 
ment of  thick-ribbed  ice!  Withal  it  is  a  silent  pain  25 
too,  a  silent  scornful  one :  the  lip  is  curled  in  a  kind 
of  godlike  disdain  of  the  thing  that  is  eating-out  his 
heart,  —  as  if  it  were  withal  a  mean  insignificant  thing, 
as  if  he  whom  it  had  power  to  torture  and  strangle 
were  greater  than  it.  The  face  of  one  wholly  in  protest,  30 
and  life-long  unsurrendering  battle,  against  the  world. 
Affection  all  converted  into  indignation :  an  implacable 
indignation;  slow,  equable,' silent,  like  that  of  a  god! 
The  eye  too,  it  looks-out  as  in  a  kind  of  surprise,  a 
kind  of  inquiry,  Why  the  world  was  of  such  a  sort?  35 
This  is  Dante :  so  he  looks,  this  '  voice  of  ten  silent 
centuries, '  and  sings  us  '  his  mystic  unfathomable  song. ' 


THOMAS    BABINGTON   MACAULAY 

(1800-1859) 

BYRON 
His  Early  Fame 

There  can  be  no  doubt  that  this  remarkable  man 
owed  the  vast  influence  which  he  exercised  over  his 
contemporaries  at  least  as  much  to  his  gloomy  egotism 
as  to  the  real  power  of  his  poetry.  We  never  could 
very  clearly  understand  how  it  is  that  egotism,  so  unpop-  5 
ular  in  conversation,  should  be  so  popular  in  writing; 
or  how  it  is  that  men  who  affect  in  their  compositions 
qualities  and  feelings  they  have  not,  impose  so  much 
more  easily  on  their  contemporaries  than  on  posterity. 
The  interest  which  the  loves  of  Petrarch  excited  in  his  10 
own  time,  and  the  pitying  fondness  with  which  half 
Europe  looked  upon  Rousseau  are  well  known.  To 
readers  of  our  age,  the  love  of  Petrarch  seems  to  have 
been  love  of  that  kind  which  breaks  no  hearts,  and  the 
sufferings  of  Rousseau  to  have  deserved  laughter  rather  15 
than  pity,  to  have  been  partly  counterfeited,  and  partly 
the  consequences  of  his  own  perverseness  and  vanity. 

What  our  grandchildren  may  think  of  the  character  of 
Lord  Byron,  as  exhibited  in  his  poetry,  we  will  not  pre- 
tend to  guess.     It  is  certain  that  the  interest  which  he  20 
excited  during  his  life  is  without  a  parallel  in  literary 
history.    The  feeling  with  which  young  readers  of  poetry 

5»o 


MACAULAY  51I 

regarded  him  can  be  conceived  only  by  those  who  have 
experienced  it.     To  people  who  are  unacquainted  with 
real  calamity,  "  nothing  is  so  dainty  sweet  as  lovely  mel-  25 
ancholy."     This  faint  image  of  sorrow  has  in  all  ages 
been  considered  by  young  gentlemen  as  an  agreeable 
excitement.    Old  gentlemen  and  middle-aged  gentlemen 
have  so  many  real  causes  of  sadness  that  they  are  rarely 
inclined  "to  be  as  sad  as  night  only  for  wantonness."  30 
Indeed  they  want  the  power  almost  as  much  as  the  incli- 
nation.     We  know  very  few  persons  engaged  in  active 
life  who,  even  if  they  were  to  procure  stools  to  be  mel- 
ancholy upon,  and  were  to  sit  down  with  all  the  pre- 
meditation of  Master  Stephen,  would  be  able  to  enjoy  35 
much  of  what  somebody  calls  "the  ecstasy  of  woe." 

Among  that  large  class  of  young  persons  whose  read- 
ing is  almost  entirely  confined  to  works  of  imagination, 
the  popularity  of  Byron  was  unbounded.  They  bought 
pictures  of  him;  they  treasured  up  the  smallest  relics  of  40 
him;  they  learned  his  poems  by  heart,  and  did  their 
best  to  write  like  him,  and  to  look  like  him.  Many  of 
them  practised  at  the  glass  in  the  hope  of  catching  the 
curl  of  the  upper  lip,  and  the  scowl  of  the  brow,  which 
appear  in  some  of  his  portraits.  A  few  discarded  their  45 
neck-cloths  in  imitation  of  their  great  leader.  For 
some  years  the  Miner\-a  press  sent  forth  no  novel  with- 
out a  mysterious,  unhappy,  Lara-like  peer.  The  num- 
ber of  hopeful  undergraduates  and  medical  students 
who  became  things  of  dark  imaginings,  on  whom  the  50 
freshness  of  the  heart  ceased  to  fall  like  dew,  whose 
passions  had  consumed  themselves  to  dust,  and  to  whom 
the  relief  of  tears  was  denied,  passes  all  calculation. 
This  was  not  the  worst.  There  was  created  in  the 
minds  of  many  of  these  enthusiasts  a  pernicious  and  55 


512  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

absurd  association  between  intellectual  power  and  moral 
depravity.  From  the  poetry  of  Lord  Byron  they  drew  a 
system  of  ethics,  compounded  of  misanthropy  and  vo- 
luptuousness, a  system  in  which  the  two  great  command- 
ments were,  to  hate  your  neighbour,  and  to  love  your  60 
neighbour's  wife. 

This  affectation  has  passed  away;  and  a  few  more 
years  will  destroy  whatever  remains  of  that  magical 
potency  which  once  belonged  to  the  name  of  Byron. 
To  us  he  is  still  a  man,  young,  noble,  and  unhappy.  65 
To  our  children  he  will  be  merely  a  writer;  and  their 
impartial  judgment  will  appoint  his  place  among  writ- 
ers; without  regard  to  his  rank  or  to  his  private  history. 
That  his  poetry  will  undergo  a  severe  sifting,  that  much 
of  what  has  been  admired  by  his  contemporaries  will  be  70 
rejected  as  worthless,  we  have  little  doubt.  But  we  have 
as  little  doubt  that,  after  the  closest  scrutiny,  there  will 
still  remain  much  that  can  only  perish  with  the  English 
language. 


WARREN   HASTINGS 

The  Trial 

The  place  was  worthy  of  such  a  trial.  It  was  the  great 
hall  of  William  Rufus,  the  hall  which  had  resounded 
with  acclamations  at  the  inauguration  of  thirty  kings, 
the  hall  which  had  witnessed  the  just  sentence  of  Bacon, 
and  the  just  absolution  of  Somers,  the  hall  where  the 
eloquence  of  Strafford  had  for  a  moment  awed  and 
melted  a  victorious  party  inflamed  with  just  resentment, 
the  hall  where  Charles  had  confronted  the  High  Court 
of  Justice  with  the  placid  courage  which  has  half  re- 


MACAULAY  513 

deemed  his  fame.     Neither  military  nor  civil  pomp  was  10 
wanting.    The  avenues  were  lined  with  grenadiers.    The 
streets  were  kept  clear  by  cavalry.     The  peers,  robed  in 
gold  and  ermine,  were  marshalled  by  the  heralds  under 
Garter-King-at-arms.     The  judges  in  their  vestments  of 
state  attended  to  give  advice  on  points  of  law.     Near  a  15 
hundred  and  seventy  lords,  three-fourths  of  the  Upper 
House  as  the  Upper  House  then  was,  walked  in  solemn 
order  from  their  usual  place  of  assembling  to  the  tri- 
bunal.    The  junior  baron  present  led  the  way,  George 
Eliott,  Lord  Heathfield,  recently  ennobled  for  his  mem-  20 
orable  defence  of  Gibraltar  against  the  fleets  and  armies 
of  France  and  Spain.     The  long  procession  was  closed 
by  the  Duke  of  Norfolk,  Earl-Marshal  of  the  realm,  by 
the  great  dignitaries,  and  by  the  brothers  and  sons  of 
the  King.     Last  of  all  came  the  Prince  of  Wales,  con-  25 
spicuous  by  his  fine  person  and  noble  bearing.     The 
gray  old  walls  were  hung  with  scarlet.     The  long  gal- 
leries were  crowded  by  an  audience  such  as  has  rarely 
excited  the  fears  or  the  emulation  of  an  orator.     There 
were  gathered  together,  from  all  parts  of  a  great,  free,   30 
enlightened,  and  prosperous  empire,  grace  and  female 
loveliness,  wit  and  learning,  the  representatives  of  every 
science  and  of  every  art.     There  were  seated  round  the 
Queen  the  fair-haired  young  daughters  of  the  house  of 
Brunswick.     There  the  Ambassadors  of  great  Kings  and  35 
Commonwealths  gazed  with  admiration  on  a  spectacle 
which  no  other   country   in   the  world  could  present. 
There   Siddons,   in  the  prime  of  her  majestic  beauty, 
looked  with  emotion  on  a  scene  surpassing  all  the  imi- 
tations of  the  stage.     There  the  historian  of  the  Roman  40 
Empire  thought  of  the  days  when  Cicero  pleaded  the 
cause  of  Sicily  against  Verres,  and  when,  before  a  sen- 

2L 


514  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

ate  which  still  retained  some  show  of  freedom,  Tacitus 
thundered  against  the  oppressor  of  Africa.     There  were 
seen,  side  by  side,  the  greatest  painter  and  the  greatest  45 
scholar  of  the  age.     The  spectacle  had  allured  Reynolds 
from  that  easel  which  has  preserved  to  us  the  thoughtful 
foreheads  of  so  many  writers  and  statesmen,  and  the 
sweet  smiles  of  so  many  noble  matrons.     It  had  induced 
Parr  to  suspend  his  labours  in  that  dark  and  profound  50 
mine  from  which  he  had  extracted  a  vast  treasure  of 
erudition,  a  treasure  too  often  buried  in  the  earth,  too 
often  paraded  with  injudicious  and  inelegant  ostenta- 
tion, but  still  precious,  massive,  and  splendid.     There 
appeared  the  voluptuous  charms  of  her  to  whom  the  55 
heir   of   the   throne  had  in  secret  plighted  his  faith. 
There  too  was  she,  the  beautiful  mother  of  a  beautiful 
race,  the  Saint  Cecilia,  whose  delicate  features,  lighted 
up  by  love  and  music,  art  has  rescued  from  the  com- 
mon decay.     There  were  the  members  of  that  brilliant  60 
society  which  quoted,  criticised,  and  exchanged  repar- 
tees under  the  rich   peacock    hangings  of  Mrs.    Mon- 
tague.   And  there  the  ladies  whose  lips,  more  persuasive 
than  those  of  Fox  himself,  had  carried  the  Westminster 
election  against  palace  and  treasury,  shone  round  Georgi-  65 
ana,  Duchess  of  Devonshire. 

The  Serjeants  made  proclamation.  Hastings  advanced 
to  the  bar,  and  bent  his  knee.  The  culprit  was  indeed 
not  unworthy  of  that  great  presence.  He  had  ruled  an 
extensive  and  populous  country,  had  made  laws  and  trea-  70 
ties,  had  sent  forth  armies,  had  set  up  and  pulled  down 
princes.  And  in  his  high  place  he  had  so  borne  him- 
self, that  all  had  feared  him,  that  most  had  loved  him, 
and  that  hatred  itself  could  deny  him  no  title  to  glory 
except  virtue.     He  looked  like  a  great  man,  and  not  75 


MACAULAY  515 

like  a  bad  man.  A  person  small  and  emaciated,  yet 
deriving  dignity  from  a  carriage  which,  while  it  indi- 
cated deference  to  the  court,  indicated  also  habitual 
self-possession  and  self-respect,  a  high  and  intellectual 
forehead,  a  brow  pensive,  but  not  gloomy,  a  mouth  of  80 
inflexible  decision,  a  face  pale  and  worn,  but  serene,  on 
which  was  written,  as  legibly  as  under  the  picture  in  the 
council  chamber  at  Calcutta,  Mens  cequa  in  arduis  ;  such 
was  the  aspect  with  which  the  great  Proconsul  presented 
himself  to  his  judges.  85 

His  counsel  accompanied  him,  men  all  of  whom  were 
afterwards  raised,  by  their  talents  and  learning,  to  the 
highest  posts  in  their  profession,  the  bold  and  strong- 
minded  Law,  afterwards  Chief  Justice  of  the  King's 
Bench;  the  more  humane  and  eloquent  Dallas,  after-  90 
wards  Chief  Justice  of  the  Common  Pleas;  and  Plomer 
who,  near  twenty  years  later,  successfully  conducted  in 
the  same  high  court  the  defence  of  Lord  Melville,  and 
subsequently  became  Vice-Chancellor  and  Master  of  the 
Rolls.  95 

But  neither  the  culprit  nor  his  advocates  attracted  so 
much  notice  as  the  accusers.  In  the  midst  of  the  blaze 
of  red  drapery,  a  space  had  been  fitted  up  with  green 
benches  and  tables  for  the  Commons.  The  managers, 
with  Burke  at  their  head,  appeared  in  full  dress.  The  100 
collectors  of  gossip  did  not  fail  to  remark  that  even 
Fox,  generally  so  regardless  of  his  appearance,  had  paid 
to  the  illustrious  tribunal  the  compliment  of  wearing  a 
bag  and  sword.  Pitt  had  refused  to  be  one  of  the  con- 
ductors of  the  impeachment;  and  his  commanding,  105 
copious,  and  sonorous  eloquence  was  wanting  to  that 
great  muster  of  various  talents.  Age  and  blindness  had 
unfitted  Lord  North  for  the  duties  of  a  public  prose- 


5l6  FBOM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

cutor;  and  his  friends  were  left  without  the  help  of  his 
excellent  sense,  his  tact  and  his  urbanity.     But  in  spite  no 
of  the  absence  of  these  two  distinguished  members  of 
the  Lower  House,  the  box  in  which  the  managers  stood 
contained  an  array  of  speakers  such  as  perhaps  had  not 
appeared  together  since  the  great  age  of  Athenian  elo- 
quence.     There  were   Fox  and  Sheridan,  the  English  115 
Demosthenes  and  the  English  Hyperides.     There  was 
Burke,   ignorant,    indeed,   or  negligent,   of  the  art  of 
adapting  his  reasonings  and  his  style  to  the  capacity 
and  taste  of  his  hearers,  but  in  amplitude  of  compre- 
hension and  richness  of  imagination  superior  to  every  120 
orator,  ancient  or  modern.     There,  with  eyes  reveren- 
tially fixed  on  Burke,  appeared  the  finest  gentleman  of 
the  age,  his  form  developed  by  every  manly  exercise, 
his  face  beaming  with  intelligence  and  spirit,  the  ingen- 
ious, the  chivalrous,  the  high-souled  Windham.     Nor,  125 
though  surrounded  by  such  men,  did  the  youngest  man- 
ager pass  unnoticed.    At  an  age  when  most  of  those  who 
distinguish  themselves  in  life  are  still  contending  for 
prizes  and  fellowships  at  college,  he  had  won  for  him- 
self a  conspicuous  place  in  parliament.     No  advantage  130 
of  fortune  or  connexion  was  wanting  that  could  set  off 
to  the  height  his  splendid  talents  and  his  unblemished 
honour.    At  twenty-three  he  had  been  thought  worthy  to 
be  ranked  with  the  veteran  statesmen  who  appeared  as 
the  delegates  of  the  British  Commons,  at  the  bar  of  the  135 
British  Nobility.     All  who  stood  at  that  bar,  save  him 
alone,  are  gone,  culprit,  advocates,  accusers.      To  the 
generation  which  is  now  in  the  vigour  of  life,  he  is  now 
the  sole  representative  of  a  great  age  which  has  passed 
away.     But  those,  who  within  the  last  ten  years,  have  140 
listened  with  delight,  till  the  morning  sun  shone  on  the 


MACAULAY  517 

tapestries  of  the  House  of  Lords,  to  the  lofty  and  ani- 
mated eloquence  of  Charles  Earl  Grey,  are  able  to  form 
some  estimate  of  the  powers  of  a  race  of  men  among 
whom  he  was  not  the  foremost.  145 

The  charges  and  the  answers  of  Hastings  were  first 
read.  The  ceremony  occupied  two  whole  days,  and  was 
rendered  less  tedious  than  it  would  otherwise  have  been 
by  the  silver  voice  and  just  emphasis  of  Cowper,  the 
clerk  of  the  court,  a  near  relation  of  the  amiable  poet.  150 
On  the  third  day  Burke  rose.  Four  sittings  were  occu- 
pied by  his  opening  speech,  which  was  intended  to  be 
a  general  introduction  to  all  the  charges.  With  an  exu- 
berance of  thought  and  a  splendour  of  diction  which 
more  than  satisfied  the  highly  raised  expectation  of  the  155 
audience,  he  described  the  character  and  institutions  of 
the  natives  of  India,  recounted  the  circumstances  in 
which  the  Asiatic  empire  of  Britain  had  originated,  and 
set  forth  the  constitution  of  the  Company  and  of  the 
English  Presidencies.  Having  thus  attempted  to  com- 160 
municate  to  his  hearers  an  idea  of  Eastern  society,  as 
vivid  as  that  which  existed  in  his  own  mind,  he  pro- 
ceeded to  arraign  the  administration  of  Hastings  as  sys- 
tematically conducted  in  defiance  of  morality  and  public 
law.  The  energy  and  pathos  of  the  great  orator  extorted  165 
expressions  of  unwonted  admiration  from  the  stern  and 
hostile  Chancellor,  and,  for  a  moment,  seemed  to  pierce 
even  the  resolute  heart  of  the  defendant.  The  ladies  in 
the  galleries,  unaccustomed  to  such  displays  of  elo- 
quence, excited  by  the  solemnity  of  the  occasion,  and  170 
perhaps  not  unwilling  to  display  their  taste  and  sensi- 
bility, were  in  a  state  of  uncontrollable  emotion.  Hand- 
kerchiefs were  pulled  out;  smelling  bottles  were  handed 
round;  hysterical  sobs  and  screams  were  heard,  and  Mrs. 


5l8  FROM   CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

Sheridan  was  carried  out  in  a  fit.     At  length  the  orator  175 
concluded.     Raising  his  voice  till  the  old  arches  of 
Irish  oak  resounded,   "Therefore,"  said  he,  "hath  it 
with  all  confidence  been  ordered,  by  the  Commons  of 
Great  Britain,  that  I  impeach  Warren  Hastings  of  high 
crimes  and  misdemeanours,    I  impeach  him  in  the  name  180 
of  the  Commons'  House  of  Parliament,  whose  trust  he 
has  betrayed.     I  impeach  him  in  the  name  of  the  Eng- 
lish nation,  whose  ancient  honour  he  has  sullied.    I  im- 
peach him  in  the  name  of  the  people  of  India,  whose 
rights  he  has  trodden  under  foot,  and  whose  country  he  185 
has  turned  into  a  desert.     Lastly,  in  the  name  of  human 
nature  itself,  in  the  name  of  both  sexes,  in  the  name  of 
every  age,  in  the  name  of  every  rank,  I  impeach  the 
common  enemy  and  oppressor  of  all !  " 


JOHN   HENRY  CARDINAL   NEWMAN 

(i8oi-i8go) 

IDEA  OF   A  UNIVERSITY 

Knowledge  in  Relation  to  Cidhire 

A  GREAT  memory,  as  I  have  already  said,  does  not 
make  a  philosopher,  any  more  than  a  dictionary  can  be 
called  a  grammar.  There  are  men  who  embrace  in  their 
minds  a  vast  multitude  of  ideas,  but  with  little  sensi- 
bility about  their  real  relations  towards  each  other.  5 
These  may  be  antiquarians,  annalists,  naturalists;  they 
may  be  learned  in  the  law;  they  may  be  versed  in  sta- 
tistics; they  are  most  useful  in  their  own  place;  I 
should  shrink  from  speaking  disrespectfully  of  them; 
still,  there  is  nothing  in  such  attainments  to  guaran-  10 
tee  the  absence  of  narrowne«»^  of  mind.  If  they  are 
nothing  more  than  well-read  men,  or  men  of  informa- 
tion, they  have  not  what  specially  deserves  the  name 
of  culture  of  mind,  or  fulfils  the  type  of  Liberal  Edu- 
cation. 15 

In  like  manner,  we  sometimes  fall  in  with  persons 
who  have  seen  much  of  the  world,  and  of  the  men  who, 
in  their  day,  have  played  a  conspicuous  part  in  it,  but 
who  generalize  nothing,  and  have  no  observation,  in  the 
true  sense  of  the  word.  They  abound  in  information  in  20 
detail,  curious  and  entertaining,  about  men  and  things; 
and,  having  lived  under  the  influence  of  no  very  clear 

519 


520  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

or  settled  principles,  religious  or  political,  they  speak 
of  every  one  and  every  thing,  only  as  so  many  phenom- 
ena, which  are  complete  in  themselves,  and  lead  to  25 
nothing,  not  discussing  them,  or  teaching  any  truth,  or 
instructing  the  hearer,  but  simply  talking.  No  one 
would  say  that  these  persons,  well  informed  as  they  are, 
had  attained  to  any  great  culture  of  intellect  or  to  phi- 
losophy. 30 

The  case  is  the  same  still  more  strikingly  where  the 
persons  in  question  are  beyond  dispute  men  of  inferior 
powers  and  deficient  education.  Perhaps  they  have 
been  much  in  foreign  countries,  and  they  receive,  in 
a  passive,  otiose,  unfruitful  way,  the  various  facts  which  35 
are  forced  upon  them  there.  Seafaring  men,  for  ex- 
ample, range  from  one  end  of  the  earth  to  the  other; 
but  the  multiplicity  of  external  objects,  which  they 
have  encountered,  forms  no  symmetrical  and  consistent 
picture  upon  their  imagination;  they  see  the  tapestry  40 
of  human  life,  as  it  were  on  the  wrong  side,  and  it 
tells  no  story.  They  sleep,  and  they  rise  up,  and  they 
find  themselves,  now  in  Europe,  now  in  Asia;  they  see 
visions  of  great  cities  and  wild  regions;  they  are  in  the 
marts  of  commerce,  or  amid  the  islands  of  the  South;  45 
they  gaze  on  Pompey's  Pillar,  or  on  the  Andes;  and 
nothing  which  meets  them  carries  them  forward  or  back- 
ward, to  any  idea  beyond  itself.  Nothing  has  a  drift 
or  relation;  nothing  has  a  history  or  a  promise.  Every 
thing  stands  by  itself,  and  comes  and  goes  in  its  turn,  50 
like  the  shifting  scenes  of  a  show,  which  leave  the  spec- 
tator where  he  was.  Perhaps  you  are  near  such  a  man 
on  a  particular  occasion,  and  expect  him  to  be  shocked 
or  perplexed  at  something  which  occurs;  but  one  thing 
is  much  the  same  to  him  as  another,  or,  if  he  is  per-  55 


NEWMAN  521 

plexed,  it  is  as  not  knowing  what  to  say,  whether  it  is 
right  to  admire,  or  to  ridicule,  or  to  disapprove,  while 
conscious  that  some  expression  of  opinion  is  expected 
from  him;  for  in  fact  he  has  no  standard  of  judgment 
at  all,  and  no  landmarks  to  guide  him  to  a  conclusion.  60 
Such  is  mere  acquisition,  and,  I  repeat,  no  one  would 
dream  of  calling  it  philosophy. 

Instances,  such  as  these,  confirm,  by  the  contrast,  the 
conclusion  I  have  already  drawn  from  those  which  pre- 
ceded them.  That  only  is  true  enlargement  of  mind  65 
which  is  the  power  of  viewing  many  things  at  once  as 
one  whole,  of  referring  them  severally  to  their  true 
place  in  the  universal  system,  of  understanding  their 
respective  values,  and  determining  their  mutual  depend- 
ence. Thus  is  that  form  of  Universal  Knowledge,  of  70 
which  I  have  on  a  former  occasion  spoken,  set  up  in 
the  individual  intellect,  and  constitutes  its  perfection. 
Possessed  of  this  real  illumination,  the  mind  never  views 
any  part  of  the  extended  subject-matter  of  Knowledge 
without  recollecting  that  it  is  but  a  part,  or  without  the  75 
associations  which  spring  from  this  recollection.  It 
makes  everything  in  some  sort  lead  to  everything  else; 
it  would  communicate  the  image  of  the  whole  to  every 
separate  portion,  till  that  whole  becomes  in  imagina- 
tion like  a  spirit,  everywhere  pervading  and  penetrating  80 
its  component  parts,  and  giving  them  one  definite  mean- 
ing. Just  as  our  bodily  organs,  when  mentioned,  recall 
their  function  in  the  body,  as  the  word  "creation"  sug- 
gests the  Creator,  and  "subjects"  a  sovereign,  so,  in  the 
mind  of  the  Philosopher,  as  we  are  abstractly  conceiv-  85 
ing  of  him,  the  elements  of  the  physical  and  moral 
world,  sciences,  arts,  pursuits,  ranks,  offices,  events, 
opinions,  individualities,  are  all  viewed  as  one,  with 


522  FROM   CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

correlative  functions,  and   as   gradually   by   successive 
combinations   converging,    one    and    all,    to    the    true  90 
centre. 

To  have  even  a  portion  of  this  illuminative  reason 
and  true  philosophy  is  the  highest  state  to  which  nat- 
ure can  aspire,   in  the  way  of   intellect;    it  puts  the 
mind  above  the  influences  of  chance  and  necessity,  above  95 
anxiety,  suspense,  unsettlement,  and  superstition,  which 
is  the  lot  of  the  many.    Men,  whose  minds  are  possessed 
with  some  one  object,  take  exaggerated  views  of  its  im- 
portance, are  feverish  in  the  pursuit  of  it,  make  it  the 
measure  of  things  which  are  utterly  foreign  to  it,  and  100 
are  startled  and  despond  if  it  happens  to  fail  them. 
They  are  ever  in  alarm  or  in  transport.     Those  on  the 
other  hand  who  have  no  object  or  principle  whatever  to 
hold  by,  lose  their  way  every  step  they  take.     They  are 
thrown  out,  and  do  not  know  what  to  think  or  say,  at  105 
every  fresh  juncture;  they  have  no  view  of  persons,  or 
occurrences,  or  facts,  which  come  suddenly  upon  them, 
and  they  hang  upon  the  opinion  of  others  for  want  of 
internal  resources.     But  the  intellect,  which  has  been 
disciplined  to  the  perfection  of  its  powers,  which  knows,  no 
and  thinks  while  it  knows,  which  has  learned  to  leaven 
the  dense  mass  of  facts  and  events  with  the  elastic  force 
of  reason,  such  an  intellect  cannot  be  partial,  cannot  be 
exclusive,  cannot  be  impetuous,  cannot  be  at  a  loss, 
cannot  but  be  patient,  collected,  and  majestically  calm,  115 
because  it  discerns  the  end  in  every  beginning,  the  ori- 
gin in  every  end,  the  law  in  every  interruption,  the  limit 
in  each  delay;  because  it  ever  knows  where  it  stands, 
and  how  its  path  lies  from  one  point  to  another.     It  is 
the  Tcrpaywvo?  of  the  Peripatetic,  and  has  the  "nil  ad- 120 
mirari  "  of  the  Stoic,  — 


NEWMAN  523 

Felix  qui  potuit  rerum  cognoscere  causas, 
Atque  metus  omnes,  et  inexorabile  fatum 
Subjecit  pedibus,  strepitumque  Acherontis  avari. 

There  are  men  who,  when  in  difficulties,  originate  at  125 
the  moment  vast  ideas  or  dazzling  projects;  who,  under 
the  influence  of   excitement,  are  able  to  cast  a  light, 
almost  as  if  from  inspiration,  on  a  subject  or  course 
of  action  which  comes  before  them;  who  have  a  sudden 
presence  of  mind  equal  to  any  emergency,  rising  with  130 
the  occasion,  and  an  undaunted  magnanimous  bearing, 
and  an  energy  and  keenness  which  is  but  made  intense 
by  opposition.     This  is  genius,  this  is  heroism;    it  is 
the  exhibition  of  a  natural  gift,  which  no  culture  can 
teach,  at  which  no  Institution  can  aim :    here,  on  the  135 
contrary,  we  are  concerned,  not  with  mere  nature,  but 
with  training  and  teaching.     That  perfection  of  the  In- 
tellect, which  is  the  result  of  Education,  and  its  beau 
ideal,  to  be  imparted  to  individuals  in  their  respective 
measures,  is  the  clear,  calm,  accurate  vision  and  com- 140 
prehension  of  all  things,  as  far  as  the  finite  mind  can 
embrace  them,  each  in  its  place,  and  with  its  own  char- 
acteristics  upon   it.     It  is  almost  prophetic  from   its 
knowledge  of  history;  it  is  almost  heart-searching  from 
its  knowledge  of  human  nature;    it  has  almost  super-  145 
natural  charity  from    its   freedom  from  littleness  and 
prejudice;    it  has  almost  the  repose  of  faith,  because 
nothing  can  startle  it;    it  has  almost  the  beauty  and 
harmony  of  heavenly  contemplation,  so  intimate  is  it 
with  the  eternal  order  of  things  and  the  music  of  the  150 
spheres. 


524  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

CALLISTA:   A  TALE   OF   THE   THIRD   CENTURY 
Callista's  Vision 

O  WISDOM  of  the  world !  and  strength  of  the  world ! 
what  are  you  when  matched  beside  the  foolishness  and 
the  weakness  of  the  Christian?  You  are  great  in  re- 
sources, manifold  in  methods,  hopeful  in  prospects; 
but  one  thing  you  have  not, —  and  that  is  peace.  You  5 
are  always  tumultuous,  restless,  apprehensive.  You  have 
nothing  you  can  rely  upon.  You  have  no  rock  under 
your  feet.  But  the  humblest,  feeblest  Christian  has  that 
which  is  impossible  to  you.  Callista  had  once  felt  the 
misery  of  maladies  akin  to  yours.  She  had  passed  10 
through  doubt,  anxiety,  perplexity,  despondency,  pas- 
sion; but  now  she  was  in  peace.  Now  she  feared  the 
torture  or  the  flame  as  little  as  the  breeze  which  arose 
at  nightfall,  or  the  busy  chatter  of  the  grasshoppers  at 
the  noonday.  Nay,  rather,  she  did  not  think  of  torture  15 
and  death  at  all,  but  was  possessed  by  a  peace  which 
bore  her  up,  as  if  bodily,  on  its  mighty  wings.  For 
hours  she  remained  on  her  knees,  after  Caecilius  left 
her :  then  she  lay  down  on  her  rushes  and  slept  her  last 
mortal  sleep.  20 

She  slept  sound;  she  dreamed.  She  thought  she  was 
no  longer  in  Africa,  but  in  her  own  Greece,  more  sunny 
and  bright  than  before;  but  the  inhabitants  were  gone. 
Its  majestic  mountains,  its  rich  plains,  its  expanse  of 
waters,  all  silent:  no  one  to  converse  with,  no  one  to  25 
sympathize  with.  And,  as  she  wandered  on  and  won- 
dered, suddenly  its  face  changed,  and  its  colours  were 
illuminated  tenfold  by  a  heavenly  glory,  and  each  hue 
upon  the  scene  was  of  a  beauty  she  had  never  known, 


NEWMAN  525 

and  seemed  strangely  to  affect  all  her  senses  at  once,   30 
being  fragrance  and  music,  as  well  as  light.     And  there 
came  out  of  the  grottos,  and  glens,  and  woods,  and  out 
of  the  seas,  myriads  of  bright  images,  whose  forms  she 
could  not  discern;  and  these  came  all  around  her,  and 
became  a  sort  of  scene  or  landscape,  which  she  could  33 
not  have  described  in  words,  as  if  it  were  a  world  of 
spirits,  not  of  matter.     And  as  she  gazed,  she  thought 
she  saw  before  her  a  well-known  face,  only  glorified. 
She,  who  had  been  a  slave,  now  was  arrayed  more  bril- 
liantly than  an  oriental  queen;  and  she  looked  at  Cal-  40 
lista  with  a  smile  so  sweet,  that  Callista  felt  she  could 
but  dance  to  it. 

And  as  she  looked  more  earnestly,  doubting  whether 
she  should  begin  or  not,  the  face  changed,  and  now  was 
more  marvellous  still.     It  had  an  innocence  in  its  look,   45 
and  also  a  tenderness,  which  bespoke  both  Maid  and 
Mother,  and  so  transported  Callista,  that  she  must  needs 
advance  towards  her,  out  of  love  and  reverence.      And 
the  Lady  seemed  to  make  signs  of  encouragement:  so 
she  began  a  solemn  measure,  unlike  all  dances  of  earthy   50 
with  hands  and  feet,  serenely  moving  on  towards  what 
she  heard  some  of  them  call  a  great  action  and  a  glori- 
ous consummation,  though  she  did  not  know  what  they 
meant.     At  length  she  was  fain  to  sing  as  well  as  dance; 
and  her  words  were,  "  In  the  Name  of  the  Father,  and  55 
of  the  Son,  and  of  the  Holy  Ghost";  on  which  another 
said,  "A  good  beginning  of  the  sacrifice."     And  when 
she  had  come  close  to  this  gracious  figure,  there  was  a 
fresh  change.    The  face,  the  features  were  the  same ;  but 
the  light  of  Divinity  now  seemed  to  beam  through  them,   60 
and  the  hair  parted,  and  hung  down  long  on  each  side  of 
the  forehead;  and  there  was  a  crown  of  another  fashion 


526  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

from  the  Lady's  round  about  it,  made  of  what  looked 
like  thorns.     And  the  palms  of  the  hands  were  spread 
out  as  if  towards  her,  and  there  were  marks  of  wounds  65 
in  them.     And  the  vestment  had  fallen,  and  there  was  a 
deep  opening  in  the  side.     And  as  she  stood  entranced 
before  Him,  and  motionless,  she  felt  a  consciousness 
that  her  own  palms  were  pierced  like  His,  and  her  feet 
also.     And  she  looked  round,  and  saw  the  likeness  of  70 
His  face  and  of  His  wounds  upon  all  that  company. 
And  now  they  were  suddenly  moving  on,  and  bearing 
something,  or  some  one,  heaven-wards;    and  they  too 
began  to  sing,  and  their  words  seemed  to  be,  "Rejoice 
with  Me,  for  I  have  found  My  sheep,"  ever  repeated.   75 
They  went  up  through  an  avenue  or  long  grotto,  with 
torches   of   diamonds,   and   amethysts,   and   sapphires, 
which  lit  up  its  spars  and  made  them  sparkle.     And 
she  tried  to  look,  but  could  not  discover  what  they  were 
carrying,  till  she  heard  a  very  piercing  cry,  which  awoke  80 
her. 

♦ 

UNIVERSITY   SERMONS 

Music  a  Symbol  of  the  Unseen 

Let  us  take  another  instance,  of  an  outward  and 
earthly  form,  or  economy,  under  which  great  wonders 
unknown  seem  to  be  typified;  I  mean  musical  sounds, 
as  they  are  exhibited  most  perfectly  in  instrumental  har- 
mony. There  are  seven  notes  in  the  scale;  make  them  5 
fourteen ;  yet  what  a  slender  outfit  for  so  vast  an  enter- 
prise! What  science  brings  so  much  out  of  so  little? 
Out  of  what  poor  elements  does  some  great  master  in  it 
create  his  new  world !     Shall  we  say  that  all  this  exuber- 


NEWMAN  527 

ant  inventiveness  is  a  mere  ingenuity  or  trick  of  art,  10 
like  some  game  or  fashion  of  the  day,  without  reality, 
without  meaning?  We  may  do  so;  and  then,  perhaps, 
we  shall  also  account  the  science  of  theology  to  be  a 
matter  of  words;  yet,  as  there  is  a  divinity  in  the  theol- 
ogy of  the  Church,  which  those  who  feel  cannot  com-  15 
municate,  so  is  there  also  in  the  wonderful  creation  of 
sublimity  and  beauty  of  which  I  am  speaking.  To  many 
men  the  very  names  which  the  science  employs  are 
utterly  incomprehensible.  To  speak  of  an  idea  or  a 
subject  seems  to  be  fanciful  or  trifling,  to  speak  of  the  20 
views  which  it  opens  upon  us  to  be  childish  extrava- 
gance; yet  is  it  possible  that  that  inexhaustible  evolu- 
tion and  disposition  of  notes,  so  rich  yet  so  simple,  so 
intricate  yet  so  regulated,  so  various  yet  so  majestic, 
should  be  a  mere  sound,  which  is  gone  and  perishes?  25 
Can  it  be  that  those  mysterious  stirrings  of  heart,  and 
keen  emotions,  and  strange  yearnings  after  we  know  not 
what,  and  awful  impressions  from  we  know  not  whence, 
should  be  wrought  in  us  by  what  is  unsubstantial,  and 
comes  and  goes,  and  begins  and  ends  in  itself?  It  is  30 
not  so;  it  cannot  be.  No;  they  have  escaped  from 
some  higher  sphere ;  they  are  the  outpourings  of  eternal 
harmony  in  the  medium  of  created  sound;  they  are 
echoes  from  our  home;  they  are  the  voice  of  angels,  or 
the  Magnificat  of  saints,  or  the  living  laws  of  divine  35 
governance,  or  the  divine  attributes;  something  are  they 
besides  themselves,  which  we  cannot  compass,  which  we 
cannot  utter, —  though  mortal  man,  and  he  perhaps  not 
otherwise  distinguished  above  his  fellows,  has  the  gift 
of  eliciting  them.  40 


ALFRED    LORD   TENNYSON 

(1809-1893) 

THE   DYING   SWAN 

The  plain  was  grassy,  wild,  and  bare, 
Wide,  wild,  and  open  to  the  air, 
Which  had  built  up  everywhere 

An  under-roof  of  doleful  gray. 
With  an  inner  voice  the  river  ran, 
Adown  it  floated  a  dying  swan, 
And  loudly  did  lament. 

It  was  the  middle  of  the  day. 
Ever  the  weary  wind  went  on, 

And  took  the  reed-tops  as  it  went. 

Some  blue  peaks  in  the  distance  rose, 

And  white  against  the  cold-white  sky. 

Shone  out  their  crowning  snows. 
One  willow  over  the  river  wept, 

And  shook  the  wave  as  the  wind  did  sigh; 

Above  in  the  wind  was  the  swallow, 
Chasing  itself  at  its  own  wild  will. 
And  far  thro'  the  marish  green  and  still 
The  tangled  water-courses  slept. 

Shot  over  with  purple,  and  green,  and  yellow. 

The  wild  swan's  death-hymn  took  the  soul 
Of  that  waste  place  with  joy 
528 


TENNYSON  529 

Hidden  in  sorrow :  at  first  to  the  ear 

The  warble  was  low,  and  full  and  clear; 

And  floating  about  the  under-sky,  25 

Prevailing  in  weakness,  the  coronach  stole 

Sometimes  afar,  and  sometimes  anearj 

But  anon  her  awful  jubilant  voice, 

With  a  music  strange  and  manifold, 

Flow'd  forth  on  a  carol  free  and  bold;  30 

As  when  a  mighty  people  rejoice 

With  shawms,  and  with  cymbals,  and  harps  of  gold, 

And  the  tumult  of  their  acclaim  is  roll'd 

Thro'  the  open  gates  of  the  city  afar, 

To  the  shepherd  who  watcheth  the  evening  star.         35 

And  the  creeping  mosses  and  clambering  weeds, 

And  the  willow-branches  hoar  and  dank, 

And  the  wavy  swell  of  the  soughing  reeds, 

And  the  wave-worn  horns  of  the  echoing  bank, 

And  the  silvery  marish-flowers  that  throng  40 

The  desolate  creeks  and  pools  among. 

Were  flooded  over  with  eddying  song. 


THE  POET 

The  poet  in  a  golden  clime  was  bom, 

With  golden  stars  above; 
Dower'd  with  the  hate  of  hate,  the  scorn  of  scorn. 
The  love  of  love. 

He  saw  thro'  life  and  death,  thro'  good  and  ill, 

He  saw  thro'  his  own  soul. 
The  marvel  of  the  everlasting  will. 
An  open  scroll, 

2M 


530  FROM   CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

Before  him  lay:  with  echoing  feet  he  threaded 

The  secretest  walks  of  fame :  lo 

The  viewless  arrows  of  his  thoughts  were  headed 
And  wing'd  with  flame, 

Like  Indian  reeds  blown  from  his  silver  tongue, 

And  of  so  fierce  a  flight. 
From  Calpe  unto  Caucasus  they  sung,  15 

Filling  with  light 

And  vagrant  melodies  the  winds  which  bore 

Them  earthward  till  they  lit; 
Then,  like  the  arrow-seeds  of  the  field  flower. 

The  fruitful  wit  20 

Cleaving,  took  root,  and  springing  forth  anew 

Where'er  they  fell,  behold. 
Like  to  the  mother  plant  in  semblance,  grew 
A  flower  all  gold. 

And  bravely  furnish' d  all  abroad  to  fling  25 

The  winged  shafts  of  truth. 
To  throng  with  stately  blooms  the  breathing  spring 
Of  Hope  and  Youth. 

So  many  minds  did  gird  their  orbs  with  beams, 

Tho'  one  did  fling  the  fire.  30 

Heaven  fiow'd  upon  the  soul  in  many  dreams 
Of  high  desire. 

Thus  truth  was  multiplied  on  truth,  the  world 

Like  one  great  garden  show'd, 
And  thro'  the  wreaths  of  floating  dark  upcurl'd,         35 
Rare  sunrise  fiow'd. 


TENNYSON  53 1 

And  Freedom  rear'd  in  that  august  sunrise 

Her  beautiful  bold  brow, 
When  rites  and  forms  before  his  burning  eyes 

Melted  like  snow.  40 

There  was  no  blood  upon  her  maiden  robes 

Sunn'd  by  those  orient  skies; 
But  round  about  the  circles  of  the  globes 
Of  her  keen  eyes 

And  in  her  raiment's  hem  was  traced  in  flame  45 

Wisdom,  a  name  to  shake 
All  evil  dreams  of  power  —  a  sacred  name. 
And  when  she  spake, 

Her  words  did  gather  thunder  as  they  ran, 

And  as  the  lightning  to  the  thunder  50 

Which  follows  it,  riving  the  spirit  of  man, 
Making  earth  wonder. 

So  was  their  meaning  to  her  words.     No  sword 

Of  wrath  her  right  arm  whirl'd, 
But  one  poor  poet's  scroll,  and  with  his  word  55 

She  shook  the  world. 


THE   POETS   MIND 

Vex  not  thou  the  poet's  mind 

With  thy  shallow  wit  : 
Vex  not  thou  the  poet's  mind; 

For  thou  canst  not  fathom  it. 
Clear  and  bright  it  should  be  ever, 
Flowing  like  a  crystal  river; 
Bright  as  light,  and  clear  as  wind. 


532  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

Dark-brow'd  sophist,  come  not  anear; 

All  the  place  is  holy  ground; 
Hollow  smile  and  frozen  sneer  i« 

Come  not  here. 
Holy  water  will  I  pour 
Into  every  spicy  flower 
Of  the  laurel-shrubs  that  hedge  it  around. 
The  flowers  would  faint  at  your  cruel  cheer.  15 

In  your  eye  there  is  death, 
There  is  frost  in  your  breath 
Which  would  blight  the  plants. 
Where  you  stand  you  cannot  hear 

From  the  groves  within  20 

The  wild-bird's  din. 
In  the  heart  of  the  garden  the  merry  bird  chants, 
It  would  fall  to  the  ground  if  you  came  in. 
In  the  middle  leaps  a  fountain 

Like  sheet-lightning.  25 

Ever  brightening 
With  a  low  melodious  thunder; 
All  day  and  all  night  it  is  ever  drawn 
From  the  brain  of  the  purple  mountain 
Which  stands  in  the  distance  yonder :  30 

It  springs  on  a  level  of  bowery  lawn, 
And  the  mountain  draws  it  from  Heaven  above, 
And  it  sings  a  song  of  undying  love; 
And  yet,  tho'  its  voice  be  so  clear  and  full, 
You  never  would  hear  it;  your  ears  are  so  dull;      35 
So  keep  where  you  are:  you  are  foul  with  sin; 
It  would  shrink  to  the  earth  if  you  came  in. 


TENNYSON  533 

THE  POET'S   SONG 

The  rain  had  fallen,  the  Poet  arose, 

He  pass'd  by  the  town  and  out  of  the  street, 
A  light  wind  blew  from  the  gates  of  the  sun. 

And  waves  of  shadow  went  over  the  wheat, 
And  he  sat  him  down  in  a  lonely  place,  5 

And  chanted  a  melody  loud  and  sweet. 
That  made  the  wild-swan  pause  in  her  cloud, 

And  the  lark  drop  down  at  his  feet. 

The  swallow  stopt  as  he  hunted  the  bee, 

The  snake  slipt  under  a  spray,  10 

The  wild  hawk  stood  with  the  down  on  his  beak. 

And  stared,  with  his  foot  on  the  prey. 
And  the  nightingale  thought,  "  I  have  sung  many  songs. 

But  never  a  one  so  gay. 
For  he  sings  of  what  the  world  will  be  15 

When  the  years  have  died  away." 


SIR   GALAHAD 

My  good  blade  carves  the  casques  of  men, 

My  tough  lance  thrusteth  sure. 
My  strength  is  as  the  strength  of  ten, 

Because  my  heart  is  pure. 
The  shattering  trumpet  shrilleth  high, 

The  hard  brands  shiver  on  the  steel. 
The  splinter' d  spear-shafts  crack  and  fly. 

The  horse  and  rider  reel  : 
They  reel,  they  roll  in  clanging  lists, 

And  when  the  tide  of  combat  stands. 
Perfume  and  flowers  fall  in  showers. 

That  lightly  rain  from  ladies'  hands. 


534  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

How  sweet  are  looks  that  ladies  bend 

On  whom  their  favors  fall  ! 
For  them  I  battle  till  the  end,  15 

To  save  from  shame  and  thrall  : 
But  all  my  heart  is  drawn  above, 

My  knees  are  bow'd  in  crypt  and  shrine. 
I  never  felt  the  kiss  of  love. 

Nor  maiden's  hand  in  mine.  ao 

More  bounteous  aspects  on  me  beam, 

Me  mightier  transports  move  and  thrill. 
So  keep  I  fair  thro'  faith  and  prayer 

A  virgin  heart  in  work  and  will. 

When  down  the  stormy  crescent  goes,  25 

A  light  before  me  swims. 
Between  dark  stems  the  forest  glows, 

I  hear  a  noise  of  hymns  : 
Then  by  some  secret  shrine  I  ride; 

I  hear  a  voice,  but  none  are  there ;  30 

The  stalls  are  void,  the  doors  are  wide, 

The  tapers  burning  fair. 
Fair  gleams  the  snowy  altar-cloth, 

The  silver  vessels  sparkle  clean, 
The  shrill  bell  rings,  the  censer  swings,  35 

And  solemn  chants  resound  between. 

Sometimes  on  lonely  mountain-meres 

I  find  a  magic  bark; 
I  leap  on  board;  no  helmsman  steers  : 

I  float  till  all  is  dark.  40 

A  gentle  sound,  an  awful  light  ! 

Three  angels  bear  the  holy  Grail  : 
With  folded  feet,  in  stoles  of  white. 

On  sleeping  wings  they  sail. 


TENNYSON'  535 

Ah,  blessed  vision !  blood  of  God  !  45 

My  spirit  beats  her  mortal  bars, 
As  down  dark  tides  the  glory  slides, 

And  star-like  mingles  with  the  stars. 

When  on  my  goodly  charger  borne 

Thro'  dreaming  towns  I  go,  50 

The  cock  crows  ere  the  Christmas  mom, 

The  streets  are  dumb  with  snow. 
The  tempest  crackles  on  the  leads. 

And,  ringing,  springs  from  brand  and  mail; 
But  o'er  the  dark  a  glory  spreads,  55 

And  gilds  the  driving  hail. 
I  leave  the  plain,  I  climb  the  height; 

No  branchy  thicket  shelter  yields; 
But  blessed  forms  in  whistling  storms 

Fly  o'er  waste  fens  and  windy  fields.  60 

A  maiden  knight  —  to  me  is  given 

Such  hope,  I  know  not  fear; 
I  yearn  to  breathe  the  airs  of  heaven 

That  often  meet  me  here. 
I  muse  on  joy  that  will  not  cease,  65 

Pure  spaces  clothed  in  living  beams, 
Pure  lilies  of  eternal  peace, 

Whose  odors  haunt  my  dreams; 
And,  stricken  by  an  angel's  hand. 

This  mortal  armor  that  I  wear,  70 

This  weight  and  size,  this  heart  and  eyes, 

Are  touch'd,  are  turn'd  to  finest  air. 

The  clouds  are  broken  in  the  sky, 

And  thro'  the  mountain-walls 
A  rolling  organ-harmony  75 

Swells  up,  and  shakes  and  falls. 


536  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

Then  move  the  trees,  the  copses  nod, 

Wings  flutter,  voices  hover  clear  : 
"O  just  and  faithful  knight  of  God  ! 

Ride  on  !  the  prize  is  near."  8« 

So  pass  I  hostel,  hall,  and  grange; 

By  bridge  and  ford,  by  park  and  pale, 
All-arm 'd  I  ride,  whate'er  betide. 

Until  I  find  the  holy  Grail. 


ULYSSES 


It  little  profits  that,  an  idle  king. 

By  this  still  hearth,  among  these  barren  crags. 

Matched  with  an  aged  wife,  I  mete  and  dole 

Unequal  laws  unto  a  savage  race, 

That  hoard  and  sleep  and  feed  and  know  not  me. 

I  cannot  rest  from  travel:  I  will  drink 

Life  to  the  lees.     All  times  I  have  enjoyed 

Greatly,  have  suffered  greatly,  both  with  those 

That  loved  me,  and  alone  :  on  shore,  and  when 

Through  scudding  drifts  the  rainy  Hyades 

Vexed  the  dim  sea.     I  am  become  a  name; 

For,  always  roaming  with  a  hungry  heart. 

Much  have  I  seen  and  known  —  cities  of  men. 

And  manners,  climates,  councils,  governments 

(Myself  not  least,  but  honored  of  them  all)  — 

And  drunk  delight  of  battle  with  my  peers 

Far  on  the  ringing  plains  of  windy  Troy. 

I  am  a  part  of  all  that  I  have  met; 

Yet  all  experience  is  an  arch  wherethrough 

Gleams  that  untravelled  world  whose  margin  fades 

Forever  and  forever  when  I  move. 


TENNYSON  537 

How  dull  it  is  to  pause,  to  make  an  end, 

To  rust  unburnished,  not  to  shine  in  use ! 

As  though  to  breathe  were  life.     Life  piled  on  life 

Were  all  too  little,  and  of  one  to  me  25 

Little  remains;  but  every  hour  is  saved 

From  that  eternal  silence  —  something  more, 

A  bringer  of  new  things;  and  vile  it  were 

For  some  three  suns  to  store  and  hoard  myself. 

And  this  gray  spirit  yearning  in  desire  30 

To  follow  knowledge,  like  a  sinking  star, 

Beyond  the  utmost  bound  of  human  thought. 

This  is  my  son,  mine  own  Telemachus, 
To  whom  I  leave  the  sceptre  and  the  isle  — 
Well-loved  of  me,  discerning  to  fulfil  35 

This  labor,  by  slow  prudence  to  make  mild 
A  rugged  people,  and  through  soft  degrees 
Subdue  them  to  the  useful  and  the  good. 
Most  blameless  is  he,  centred  in  the  sphere 
Of  common  duties,  decent  not  to  fail  4* 

In  offices  of  tenderness,  and  pay 
Meet  adoration  to  my  household  gods 
When  I  am  gone.     He  works  his  work,  I  mine. 

There  lies  the  port;  the  vessel  puffs  her  sail; 
There  gloom  the  dark  broad  seas.     My  mariners,  45 

Souls  that  have  toiled  and  wrought  and  thought  with  me, 
That  ever  with  a  frolic  welcome  took 
The  thunder  and  the  sunshine,  and  opposed 
Free  hearts,  free  foreheads,  you  and  I  are  old. 
Old  age  hath  yet  his  honor  and  his  toil.  50 

Death  closes  all;  but  something  ere  the  end. 
Some  work  of  noble  note,  may  yet  be  done, 
Not  unbecoming  men  that  strove  with  gods. 
The  lights  begin  to  twinkle  from  the  rocks; 


538  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

The  long  day  wanes;  the  slow  moon  climbs;  the  deep  55 

Moans  round  with  many  voices.     Come,  my  friends, 

'Tis  not  too  late  to  seek  a  newer  world. 

Push  off,  and,  sitting  well  in  order,  smite 

The  sounding  furrows;  for  my  purpose  holds 

To  sail  beyond  the  sunset,  and  the  baths  60 

Of  all  the  western  stars,  until  I  die. 

It  may  be  that  the  gulfs  will  wash  us  down; 

It  may  be  we  shall  touch  the  Happy  Isles, 

And  see  the  great  Achilles,  whom  we  knew. 

Though  much  is  taken,  much  abides;  and  though  65 

We  are  not  now  that  strength  which  in  old  days 

Moved  earth  and  heaven,  that  which  we  are,  we  are : 

One  equal  temper  of  heroic  hearts. 

Made  weak  by  time  and  fate,  but  strong  in  will 

To  strive,  to  seek,  to  find,  and  not  to  yield.  70 


SONGS  FROM   "THE  PRINCESS'^ 
I 
Sweet  and  low,  sweet  and  low, 

Wind  of  the  western  sea, 
Low,  low,  breathe  and  blow. 
Wind  of  the  western  sea  ! 
Over  the  rolling  waters  go. 
Come  from  the  dying  moon,  and  blow, 
Blow  him  again  to  me; 
While  my  little  one,  while  my  pretty  one,  sleeps. 

Sleep  and  rest,  sleep  and  rest, 

Father  will  come  to  thee  soon; 
Rest,  rest,  on  mother's  breast, 

Father  will  come  to  thee  soon; 


TENNYSON  539 

Father  will  come  to  his  babe  in  the  nest, 
Silver  sails  all  out  of  the  west 

Under  the  silver  moon:  15 

Sleep,  my  little  one,  sleep,  my  pretty  one,  sleep. 


The  splendour  falls  on  castle  walls 
And  snowy  summits  old  in  story : 
The  long  light  shakes  across  the  lakes, 
And  the  wild  cataract  leaps  in  glory. 
Blow,  bugle,  blow,  set  the  wild  echoes  flying,  5 

Blow,  bugle;  answer,  echoes,  dying,  dying,  dying. 

O  hark,  O  hear!  how  thin  and  clear, 

And  thinner,  clearer,  farther  going  ! 
O  sweet  and  far  from  cliff  and  scar 

The  horns  of  Elfland  faintly  blowing  !  10 

Blow,  let  us  hear  the  purple  glens  replying  : 
Blow,  bugle;  answer,  echoes,  dying,  dying,  dying. 

O  love,  they  die  in  yon  rich  sky, 

They  faint  on  hill  or  field  or  river: 
Our  echoes  roll  from  soul  to  soul,  15 

And  grow  for  ever  and  for  ever. 
Blow,  bugle,  blow,  set  the  wild  echoes  flying. 
And  answer,  echoes,  answer,  dying,  dying,  dying. 

in 

Tears,  idle  tears,  I  know  not  what  they  mean. 
Tears  from  the  depth  of  some  divine  despair 
Rise  in  the  heart,  and  gather  to  the  eyes, 
In  looking  on  the  happy  Autumn-fields, 
And  thinking  of  the  days  that  are  no  more.  5 


540  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

Fresh  as  the  first  beam  glittering  on  a  sail, 
That  brings  our  friends  up  from  the  underworld, 
Sad  as  the  last  which  reddens  over  one 
That  sinks  with  all  we  love  below  the  verge; 
So  sad,  so  fresh,  the  days  that  are  no  more.  lo 

Ah,  sad  and  strange  as  in  dark  summer  dawns 
The  earliest  pipe  of  half-awaken'd  birds 
To  dying  ears,  when  unto  dying  eyes 
The  casement  slowly  grows  a  glimmering  square; 
So  sad,  so  strange,  the  days  that  are  no  more.  15 

Dear  as  remember' d  kisses  after  death, 
And  sweet  as  those  by  hopeless  fancy  feign'd 
On  lips  that  are  for  others;  deep  as  love, 
Deep  as  first  love,  and  wild  with  all  regret ; 
O  Death  in  Life,  the  days  that  are  no  more.  20 


TO  THE  QUEEN 

Revered,  beloved  —  O  you  that  hold 

A  nobler  office  upon  earth 

Than  arms,  or  power  of  brain,  or  birth 
Could  give  the  warrior  kings  of  old, 

Victoria, —  since  your  Royal  grace 
To  one  of  less  desert  allows 
This  laurel  greener  from  the  brows 

Of  him  that  uttered  nothing  base ; 

And  should  your  greatness,  and  the  care 
That  yokes  with  empire,  yield  you  time 
To  make  demand  of  modern  rhyme 

If  aught  of  ancient  worth  be  there; 


TENNYSOJ\r  541 

Then  —  while  a  sweeter  music  wakes, 

And  thro'  wild  March  the  throstle  calls, 
Where  all  about  your  palace-walls  15 

The  sun-lit  almond-blossom  shakes  — 

Take,  Madam,  this  poor  book  of  song; 

For  tho'  the  faults  were  thick  as  dust 

In  vacant  chambers,  I  could  trust 
Your  kindness.     May  you  rule  us  long  20 

And  leave  us  rulers  of  your  blood 

As  noble  till  the  latest  day ! 

May  children  of  our  children  say, 
"She  wrought  her  people  lasting  good; 

"Her  court  was  pure;  her  life  serene;  25 

God  gave  her  peace;  her  land  reposed; 
A  thousand  claims  to  reverence  closed 

In  her  as  Mother,  Wife,  and  Queen; 

"And  statesmen  at  her  council  met 

Who  knew  the  seasons  when  to  take  30 

Occasion  by  the  hand,  and  make 
The  bounds  of  freedom  wider  yet 

"  By  shaping  some  august  decree. 

Which  kept  her  throne  unshaken  still, 
Broad-based  upon  her  people's  will,  35 

And  compass' d  by  the  inviolate  sea." 


MILTON 


O  mcHTY-MOUTH'D  inventor  of  harmonies, 
O  skill'd  to  sing  of  Time  or  Eternity, 
God-gifted  organ-voice  of  England, 
Milton,  a  name  to  resound  for  ages; 


^42  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

Whose  Titan  angels,  Gabriel,  Abdiel,  5 

Starr 'd  from  Jehovah's  gorgeous  armouries, 
Tower,  as  the  deep-domed  empyrean 
Rings  to  the  roar  of  an  angel  onset  — 
Me  rather  all  that  bowery  loneliness. 
The  brooks  of  Eden  mazily  murmuring,  i© 

And  bloom  profuse  and  cedar  arches 
Charm,  as  a  wanderer  out  in  ocean, 
Where  some  refulgent  sunset  of  India 
Streams  o'er  a  rich  ambrosial  ocean  isle. 
And  crimson-hued  the  stately  palm-woods  15 

Whisper  in  odorous  heights  of  even. 


CROSSING   THE   BAR 

Sunset  and  evening  star, 

And  one  clear  call  for  me ! 
And  may  there  be  no  moaning  of  the  bar. 

When  I  put  out  to  sea. 

But  such  a  tide  as  moving  seems  asleep,  5 

Too  full  for  sound  and  foam, 
When  that  which  drew  from  out  the  boundless  deep 

Turns  again  home. 

Twilight  and  evening  bell. 

And  after  that  the  dark  !  10 

And  may  there  be  no  sadness  of  farewell. 

When  I  embark; 

For  tho'  from  out  our  bourne  of  Time  and  Place 
■   The  flood  may  bear  me  far, 

I  hope  to  see  my  Pilot  face  to  face  15 

When  I  have  crest  the  bar. 


WILLIAM   MAKEPEACE   THACKERAY 
(1811-1863) 

VANITY   FAIR 
Becky  Sharp 

Miss  Sharp's  father  was  an  artist,  and  in  that  quality 
had  given  lessons  of  drawing  at  Miss  Pinkerton's  school. 
He  was  a  clever  man;  a  pleasant  companion;  a  careless 
student;  with  a  great  propensity  for  running  into  debt, 
and  a  partiality  for  the  tavern.  When  he  was  drunk,  he 
used  to  beat  his  wife  and  daughter;  and  the  next  morn- 
ing, with  a  headache,  he  would  rail  at  the  world  for  its 
neglect  of  his  genius,  and  abuse,  with  a  good  deal  of 
cleverness,  and  sometimes  with  perfect  reason,  the  fools, 
his  brother  painters.  As  it  was  with  the  utmost  diffi- 
culty that  he  could  keep  himself,  and  as  he  owed  money 
for  a  mile  round  Soho,  where  he  lived,  he  thought  to 
better  his  circumstances  by  marrying  a  young  woman  of 
the  French  nation,  who  was  by  profession  an  opera-girl. 
The  humble  calling  of  her  female  parent.  Miss  Sharp 
never  alluded  to,  but  used  to  state  subsequently  that  the 
Entrechats  were  a  noble  family  of  Gascony,  and  took 
great  pride  in  her  descent  from  them.  And  curious  it 
is,  that  as  she  advanced  in  life  this  young  lady's  ances- 
tors increased  in  rank  and  splendour. 

Rebecca's  mother  had  had  some  education  somewhere, 
and  her  daughter  spoke  French  with  purity  and  a  Pari- 

543 


544  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

sian  accent.     It  was  in  those  days  rather  a  rare  accom- 
plishment, and  led  to  her  engagement  with  the  orthodox 
Miss  Pinkerton.     For  her  mother  being  dead,  her  father,   25 
finding  himself   not  likely  to  recover,  after  his  third 
attack  of  delirium  tremens^  wrote  a  manly  and  pathetic 
letter  to  Miss  Pinkerton,  recommending  the  orphan  child 
to  her  protection,  and  so  descended  to  the  grave,  after 
two  bailiffs  had  quarrelled  over  his  corpse.    Rebecca  was  30 
seventeen  when  she  came  to  Chiswick,  and  was  bound 
over   as   an   articled   pupil;    her  duties  being  to  talk 
French,   as  we  have  seen;    and  her  privileges  to  live 
cost  free,   and,   with  a  few  guineas  a  year,  to  gather 
scraps  of  knowledge  from  the  professors  who  attended  35 
the  school. 

She  was  small  and  slight  in  person;  pale,  sandy- 
haired,  and  with  eyes  habitually  cast  down :  when  they 
looked  up  they  were  very  large,  odd,  and  attractive;  so 
attractive,  that  the  Reverend  Mr.  Crisp,  fresh  from  40 
Oxford,  and  curate  to  the  Vicar  of  Chiswick,  the  Rev- 
erend Mr.  Flowerdew,  fell  in  love  with  Miss  Sharp; 
being  shot  dead  by  a  glance  of  her  eyes  which  was  fired 
all  the  way  across  Chiswick  Church  from  the  school-pew 
to  the  reading-desk.  This  infatuated  young  man  used  45 
sometimes  to  take  tea  with  Miss  Pinkerton,  to  whom  he 
had  been  presented  by  his  mamma,  and  actually  pro- 
posed something  like  marriage  in  an  intercepted  note, 
which  the  one-eyed  apple-woman  was  charged  to  deliver. 
Mrs.  Crisp  was  summoned  from  Buxton,  and  abruptly  50 
carried  off  her  darling  boy;  but  the  idea,  even,  of  such 
an  eagle  in  the  Chiswick  dovecot  caused  a  great  flutter 
in  the  breast  of  Miss  Pinkerton,  who  would  have  sent 
away  Miss  Sharp,  but  that  she  was  bound  to  her  under 
a  forfeit,  and  who  never  could  thoroughly  believe  the  55 


THACKERAY  545 

young  lady's  protestations  that  she  had  never  exchanged 
a  single  word  with  Mr.  Crisp,  except  under  her  own 
eyes  on  the  two  occasions  when  she  had  met  him  at  tea. 

By  the  side  of  many  tall  and  bouncing  young  ladies 
in  the  establishment,  Rebecca  Sharp  looked  like  a  child.  60 
But  she  had  the  dismal  precocity  of  poverty.  Many  a 
dun  had  she  talked  to,  and  turned  away  from  her  father's 
door;  many  a  tradesman  had  she  coaxed  and  wheedled 
into  good-humour,  and  into  the  granting  of  one  meal 
more.  She  sate  commonly  with  her  father,  who  was  65 
very  proud  of  her  wit,  and  heard  the  talk  of  many  of 
his  wild  companions  —  often  but  ill-suited  for  a  girl  to 
hear.  But  she  never  had  been  a  girl,  she  said;  she  had 
been  a  woman  since  she  was  eight  years  old.  O  why  did 
Miss  Pinkerton  let  such  a  dangerous  bird  into  her  cage?  70 

The  fact  is,  the  old  lady  believed  Rebecca  to  be  the 
meekest  creature  in  the  world,  so  admirably,  on  the 
occasions  when  her  father  brought  her  to  Chiswick,  used 
Rebecca  to  perform  the  part  of  the  ingenue ;  and  only 
a  year  before  the  arrangement  by  which  Rebecca  had  75 
been  admitted  into  the  house,  and  when  Rebecca  was 
sixteen  years  old,  Miss  Pinkerton  majestically,  and  with 
a  little  speech,  made  her  a  present  of  a  doll  —  which 
was,  by  the  way,  the  confiscated  property  of  Miss  Swindle, 
discovered  surreptitiously  nursing  it  in  school-hours.  80 
How  the  father  and  daughter  laughed  as  they  trudged 
home  together  after  the  evening  party  (it  was  on  the 
occasion  of  the  speeches,  when  all  the  professors  were 
invited),  and  how  Miss  Pinkerton  would  have  raged  had 
she  seen  the  caricature  of  herself  which  the  little  mimic,  85 
Rebecca,  managed  to  make  out  of  her  doll.  Becky  used 
to  go  through  dialogues  with  it;  it  formed  the  delight  of 
Newman  Street,  Gerard  Street,  and  the  artists'  quarter : 


546  FHOM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

and  the  young  painters,  when  they  came  to  take  their 
gin  and  water  with  their  lazy,  dissolute,  clever,  jovial  90 
senior,  used  regularly  to  ask  Rebecca  if  Miss  Pinkerton 
was  at  home :  she  was  well  known  to  them,  poor  soul  ! 
as  Mr.  Lawrence  or  President  West.  Once  Rebecca  had 
the  honour  to  pass  a  few  days  at  Chiswick;  after  which 
she  brought  back  Jemima,  and  erected  another  doll  as  95 
Miss  Jemmy :  for  though  that  honest  creature  had  made 
and  given  her  jelly  and  cake  enough  for  three  children, 
and  a  seven-shilling  piece  at  parting,  the  girl's  sense  of 
ridicule  was  far  stronger  than  her  gratitude,  and  she 
sacrificed  Miss  Jemmy  quite  as  pitilessly  as  her  sister.    100 

The  catastrophe  came,  and  she  was  brought  to  the 
Mall  as  to  her  home.  The  rigid  formality  of  the  place 
suffocated  her:  the  prayers  and  the  meals,  the  lessons 
and  the  walks,  which  were  arranged  with  a  conventual 
regularity,  oppressed  her  almost  beyond  endurance;  and  105 
she  looked  back  to  the  freedom  and  the  beggary  of  the 
old  studio  in  Soho  with  so  much  regret,  that  everybody, 
herself  included,  fancied  she  was  consumed  with  grief  for 
her  father.  She  had  a  little  room  in  the  garret,  where  the 
maids  heard  her  walking  and  sobbing  at  night;  but  it  no 
was  with  rage,  and  not  with  grief.  She  had  not  been 
much  of  a  dissembler,  until  now  her  loneliness  taught 
her  to  feign.  She  had  never  mingled  in  the  society  of 
women:  her  father,  reprobate  as  he  was,  was  a  man 
of  talent;  his  conversation  was  a  thousand  times  more  115 
agreeable  to  her  than  the  talk  of  such  of  her  own  sex  as 
she  now  encountered.  The  pompous  vanity  of  the  old 
schoolmistress,  the  foolish  good-humour  of  her  sister, 
the  silly  chat  and  scandal  of  the  elder  girls,  and  the 
frigid  correctness  of  the  governesses  equally  annoyed  i2«» 
her;  and  she  had  no  soft  maternal  heart,  this  unlucky 


THACKERAY  547 

girl,  otherwise  the  prattle  and  talk  of  the  younger  chil- 
dren, with  whose  care  she  was  chiefly  intrusted,  might 
have  soothed  and  interested  her;  but  she  lived  among 
them  two  years,  and  not  one  was  sorry  that  she  went  125 
away.  The  gentle  tender-hearted  Amelia  Sedley  was  the 
only  person  to  whom  she  could  attach  herself  in  the 
least;  and  who  could  help  attaching  herself  to  Amelia? 

The  happiness  —  the  superior  advantages  of  the  young 
women  round  about  her,  gave  Rebecca  inexpressible  130 
pangs  of  envy.     "  What  airs  that  girl  gives  herself,  be- 
cause she  is  an  Earl's  granddaughter,"  she  said  of  one. 
"  How  they  cringe  and  bow  to  that  Creole,  because  of  her 
hundred  thousand  pounds !    I  am  a  thousand  times  clev- 
erer and  more  charming  than  that  creature,  for  all  her  135 
wealth.     I  am  as  well  bred  as  the  Earl's  granddaughter, 
for  all  her  fine  pedigree;  and  yet  every  one  passes  me 
by  here.     And  yet,  when  I  was  at  my  father's,  did  not 
the  men  give  up  their  gayest  balls  and  parties  in  order 
to  pass  the  evening  with  me?  "     She  determined  at  any  140 
rate  to  get  free  from  the  prison  in  which  she  found  her- 
self, and  now  began  to  act  for  herself,  and  for  the  first 
time  to  make  connected  plans  for  the  future. 

She  took  advantage,  therefore,  of  the  means  of  study 
the  place  offered  her;  and  as  she  was  already  a  musician  145 
and  a  good  linguist,  she  speedily  went  through  the  little 
course  of  study  which  was  considered  necessary  for 
ladies  in  those  days.  Her  music  she  practised  inces- 
santly, and  one  day,  when  the  girls  were  out,  and  she 
had  remained  at  home,  she  was  overheard  to  play  a  150 
piece  so  well,  that  Minerva  thought  wisely,  she  could 
spare  herself  the  expense  of  a  master  for  the  juniors, 
and  intimated  to  Miss  Sharp  that  she  was  to  instruct 
them  in  rausic  for  the  future. 


548  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

The  girl  refused;  and  for  the  first  time,  and  to  the  155 
astonishment  of  the  majestic  mistress  of  the  school.    "  I 
am  here  to  speak  French  with  the  children,"  Rebecca 
said  abruptly,  "  not  to  teach  them  music,  and  save  money 
for  you.     Give  me  money,  and  I  will  teach  them." 

Minerva  was  obliged  to  yield,  and,  of  course,  dis- 160 
liked  her  from  that  day.     "For  five-and-thirty  years," 
she  said,  and  with  great  justice,  "  I  never  have  seen  the 
individual  who  had  dared  in  my  own  house  to  question 
my  authority.     I  have  nourished  a  viper  in  my  bosom." 


DE  FINIBUS 

Another  Finis  Written 

Another  Finis  written;  another  milestone  passed  on 
this  journey  from  birth  to  the  next  world  !  Sure  it  is  a 
subject  for  solemn  cogitation.  Shall  we  continue  this 
story-telling  business,  and  be  voluble  to  the  end  of  our 
age?  Will  it  not  be  presently  time,  O  prattler,  to  hold 
your  tongue,  and  let  younger  people  speak?  I  have  a 
friend,  a  painter,  who,  like  other  persons  who  shall  be 
nameless,  is  growing  old.  He  has  never  painted  with 
such  laborious  finish  as  his  works  now  show.  This  mas- 
ter is  still  the  most  humble  and  diligent  of  scholars. 
Of  Art,  his  mistress,  he  is  always  an  eager,  reverent 
pupil.  In  his  calling,  in  yours,  in  mine,  industry  and 
humility  will  help  and  comfort  us.  A  word  with  you. 
In  a  pretty  large  experience,  I  have  not  found  the  men 
who  write  books  superior  in  wit  or  learning  to  those 
who  don't  write  at  all.  In  regard  of  mere  information, 
non-writers  must  often  be  superior  to  writers.  You 
don't  expect  a  lawyer  in  full  practice  to  be  conversant 


THACKERAY  549 

with  all  kinds  of  literature,  he  is  too  busy  with  his  law; 
and  so  a  writer  is  commonly  too  busy  with  his  own  20 
books  to  be  able  to  bestow  attention  on  the  works  of 
other  people.    After  a  day's  work  (in  which  I  have  been 
depicting,  let  us  say,  the  agonies  of  Louisa  on  parting 
with  the  captain,  or  the  atrocious  behavior  of  the  wicked 
marquis  to  Lady  Emily)  I  march  to  the  Club,  propose  25 
to  improve  my  mind  and  keep  myself  "posted  up,"  as 
the  Americans  phrase  it,  with  the  literature  of  the  day. 
And  what  happens?     Given,  a  walk  after  luncheon,  a 
pleasing  book,  and  a  most  comfortable  arm-chair  by  the 
fire,  and  you  know  the  rest.     A  doze  ensues.     Pleasing  30 
book  drops  suddenly,  is  picked  up  once  with  an  air  of 
some  confusion,   is  laid  presently  softly  in  lap;   head 
falls  on  comfortable  arm-chair  cushion;  eyes  close;  soft 
nasal  music  is  heard.     Am  I  telling  Club  secrets?     Of 
afternoons,  after  lunch,  I  say,  scores  of  sensible  fogies  35 
have  a  doze.      Perhaps  I  have  fallen  asleep  over  that 
very   book   to  which   "  Finis "  has  just  been  written. 
And  if  the  writer  sleeps,  what  happens  to  the  readers? 
says  Jones,  coming  down  upon  me  with  his  lightning 
wit.     What  !  you  did  sleep  over  it?     And  a  very  good  40 
thing  too.     These  eyes  have  more  than  once  seen  a 
friend  dozing  over  pages  which  this  hand  has  written.     • 
There  is  a  vignette  somewhere  in  one  of  my  books  of  a 
friend  so  caught  napping  with  Pendennis,  or  the  New- 
comes,  in  his  lap;  and  if  a  writer  can  give  you  a  sweet,   45 
soothing,  harmless  sleep,  has  he  not  done  you  a  kind- 
ness?    So  is  the  author  who  excites  and  interests  you 
worthy  of  your  thanks  and  benedictions.     I  am  troubled 
with  fever  and  ague,  that  seizes  me  at  odd  intervals  and 
prostrates  me  for  a  day.     There  is  cold  fit,  for  which,  I   50 
am  thankful  to  say,  hot  brandy-and-water  is  prescribed, 


550  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

and  this  induces  hot  fit,  and  so  on.  In  one  or  two  of 
these  fits  I  have  read  novels  with  the  most  fearful  con- 
tentment of  mind.  Once,  on  the  Mississippi,  it  was  my 
^t2ix\y\>t\ov&^  Jacob  Faithful;  once,  at  Frankfort  O.  M.,  55 
the  delightful  Vingt  Ans  Apres  of  Monsieur  Dumas; 
once,  at  Tunbridge  Wells,  the  thrilling  Woman  in 
White;  and  these  books  gave  me  amusement  from 
morning  till  sunset.  I  remember  those  ague-fits  with  a 
great  deal  of  pleasure  and  gratitude.  Think  of  a  whole  60 
day  in  bed,  and  a  good  novel  for  a  companion!  No 
cares,  no  remorse  about  idleness,  no  visitors,  and  the 
Woman  in  White  or  the  Chevalier  d'Artagnan  to  tell  me 
stories  from  dawn  to  night!  "Please,  ma'am,  my  mas- 
ter's compliments,  and  can  he  have  the  third  volume?"  65 
(This  message  was  sent  to  an  astonished  friend  and 
neighbor  who  lent  me,  volume  by  volume,  the  W.  in 
W.  )  How  do  you  like  your  novels?  I  like  mine 
strong,  "hot  with,"  and  no  mistake;  no  love-making, 
no  observations  about  society,  little  dialogue,  except  70 
where  the  characters  are  bullying  each  other,  plenty  of 
fighting,  and  a  villain  in  the  cupboard  who  is  to  suffer 
tortures  just  before  Finis.  I  don't  like  your  melancholy 
Finis.  I  never  read  the  history  of  a  consumptive  hero- 
ine twice.  ...  75 

Among  the  sins  of  commission  which  novel-writers 
not  seldom  perpetrate  is  the  sin  of  grandiloquence,  or 
tall-talking,  against  which,  for  my  part,  I  will  offer  up 
a  special  libera  me.  This  is  the  sin  of  schoolmasters, 
governesses,  critics,  sermoners,  and  instructors  of  young  80 
or  old  people.  Nay  (for  I  am  making  a  clean  breast, 
and  liberating  my  soul),  perhaps  of  all  the  novel-spin- 
ners now  extant,  the  present  speaker  is  the  most  ad- 
dicted to  preaching.     Does  he  not  stop  perpetually  in 


THACKERAY  55 1 

his  story  and  begin  to  preach  to  you?  When  he  ought  85 
to  be  engaged  with  business,  is  he  not  forever  taking 
the  Muse  by  the  sleeve  and  plaguing  her  with  some  of 
his  cynical  sermons?  I  cry  peccavi  loudly  and  heartily. 
I  tell  you  I  would  like  to  be  able  to  write  a  story  which 
should  show  no  egotism  whatever  —  in  which  there  90 
should  be  no  reflections,  no  cynicism,  no  vulgarity  (and 
so  forth),  but  an  incident  in  every  other  page,  a  villain, 
a  battle,  a  mystery  in  every  chapter.  I  should  like  to  be 
able  to  feed  a  reader  so  spicily  as  to  leave  him  hungering 
and  thirsting  for  more  at  the  end  of  every  monthly  meal.   95 

Alexandre  Dumas  describes  himself,  when  inventing 
the  plan  of  a  work,  as  lying  silent  on  his  back  for  two 
whole  days  on  the  deck  of  a  yacht  in  a  Mediterranean 
port.  At  the  end  of  the  two  days  he  arose  and  called 
for  dinner.  In  those  two  days  he  had  built  his  plot.  100 
He  had  moulded  a  mighty  clay,  to  be  cast  presently  in 
perennial  brass.  The  chapters,  the  characters,  the  inci- 
dents, the  combinations,  were  all  arranged  in  the  artist's 
brain  ere  he  set  a  pen  to  paper.  My  Pegasus  won't  fly, 
so  as  to  let  me  survey  the  field  below  me.  He  has  no  105 
wings;  he  is  blind  of  one  eye  certainly;  he  is  restive, 
stubborn,  slow;  crops  a  hedge  when  he  ought  to  be  gal- 
loping, or  gallops  when  he  ought  to  be  quiet.  He  never 
will  show  off  when  I  want  him.  Sometimes  he  goes  at 
a  pace  which  surprises  me.  Sometimes,  when  I  most  no 
wish  him  to  make  the  running,  the  brute  turns  restive, 
and  I  am  obliged  to  let  him  take  his  own  time.  I 
wonder  do  other  novel-writers  experience  this  fatalism? 
They  must  go  a  certain  way,  in  spite  of  themselves.  I 
have  been  surprised  at  the  observations  made  by  some  115 
of  my  characters.  It  seems  as  if  an  occult  Power  was 
moving  the  pen.    The  personage  does.or  says  something, 


552  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

and  I  ask,  How  the  dickens  did  he  come  to  think  of 
that?  Every  man  has  remarked  in  dreams  the  vast  dra- 
matic power  which  is  sometimes  evinced  —  I  won't  say  120 
the  surprising  power  —  for  nothing  does  surprise  you  in 
dreams.  But  those  strange  characters  you  meet  make 
instant  observations  of  which  you  never  can  have  thought 
previously.  In  like  manner,  the  imagination  foretells 
things.  We  spake  anon  of  the  inflated  style  of  some  125 
writers.  What,  also,  if  there  is  an  afflated  style,  when 
a  writer  is  like  a  Pythoness  on  her  oracle  tripod,  and 
mighty  words  —  words  which  he  cannot  help  —  come 
blowing  and  bellowing  and  whistling  and  moaning 
through  the  speaking-pipes  of  his  bodily  organ?  1 130 
have  told  you  it  was  a  very  queer  shock  to  me  the 
other  day  when,  with  a  letter  of  introduction  in  his 
hand,  the  artist's  (not  my)  Philip  Firmin  walked  into 
this  room  and  sat  down  in  the  chair  opposite.  In  the 
novel  of  Pendennis,  written  ten  years  ago,  there  is  an  135 
account  of  a  certain  Costigan,  whom  I  had  invented  (as 
I  suppose  authors  invent  their  personages  out  of  scraps, 
heel-taps,  odds  and  ends  of  characters).  I  was  smoking 
in  a  tavern  parlor  one  night,  and  this  Costigan  came 
into  the  room  alive  —  the  very  man  —  the  most  remark- 140 
able  resemblance  of  the  printed  sketches  of  the  man,  of 
the  rude  drawings  in  which  I  had  depicted  him.  He 
had  the  same  little  coat,  the  same  battered  hat  cocked  on 
one  eye,  the  same  twinkle  in  that  eye.  "Sir,"  said  I, 
knowing  him  to  be  an  old  friend  whom  I  had  met  in  145 
unknown  regions  —  "sir,"  I  said,  "may  I  offer  you  a 
glass  of  brandy-and-water  ?  "  —  "  Be  dad  ye  may,^'  says  he, 
''^  and  P II  sing  you  a  song  tu."  Of  course  he  spoke  with 
an  Irish  brogue.  Of  course  he  had  been  in  the  army. 
In  ten  minutes  he  pulled  out  an  army  agent's  account,  150 


THACKERAY  553 

whereon  his  name  was  written.  A  few  months  after  we 
read  of  him  in  a  police  court.  How  had  I  come  to 
know  him,  to  divine  him?  Nothing  shall  convince  me 
that  I  have  not  seen  that  man  in  the  world  of  spirits. 
In  the  world  of  spirits-and-water  I  know  I  did;  but  that  155 
is  a  mere  quibble  of  words.  I  was  not  surprised  when 
he  spoke  in  an  Irish  brogue.  I  had  had  cognizance  of 
him  before,  somehow.  Who  has  not  felt  that  little  shock 
which  arises  when  a  person,  a  place,  some  words  in  a 
book  (there  is  always  a  collocation)  present  themselves  160 
to  you,  and  you  know  that  you  have  before  met  the 
same  person,  words,  scene,  and  so  forth?  .  .  . 

I  had  a  capital  half  hour  with  Jacob  Faithful  last 
night  —  when  the  last  sheet  was  corrected,  when  "  Finis  " 
had  been  written,  and  the  printer's  boy,  with  the  copy,  165 
was  safe  in  Green  Arbor  Court.  So  you  are  gone,  little 
printer's  boy,  with  the  last  scratches  and  corrections  on 
the  proof,  and  a  fine  flourish  by  way  of  Finis  at  the 
story's  end.  The  last  corrections?  I  say  those  last  cor- 
rections seem  never  to  be  finished.  A  plague  upon  the  170 
weeds !  Every  day,  when  I  walk  in  my  own  little  liter- 
ary garden-plot,  I  spy  some,  and  should  like  to  have  a 
spud  and  root  them  out.  Those  idle  words,  neighbor, 
are  past  remedy.  That  turning  back  to  the  old  pages 
produces  anything  but  elation  of  mind.  Would  you  not  175 
pay  a  pretty  fine  to  be  able  to  cancel  some  of  them? 
Oh,  the  sad  old  pages,  the  dull  old  pages!  Oh,  the 
cares,  the  entiin,  the  squabbles,  the  repetitions,  the  old 
conversations  over  and  over  again.  But  now  and  again 
a  kind  thought  is  recalled,  and  now  and  again  a  dear  180 
memory.  Yet  a  few  chapters  more,  and  then  the  last  : 
after  which,  behold  Finis  itself  come  to  an  end,  and 
the  Infinite  begun. 


CHARLES    DICKENS 

(1811-1870) 

OLIVER   TWIST 
Sikes  and  his  Dog 

He  went  on  doggedly;  but  as  he  left  the  town  behind 
him,  and  plunged  into  the  solitude  and  darkness  of  the 
road,  he  felt  a  dread  and  awe  creeping  upon  him  which 
shook  him  to  the  core.  Every  object  before  him,  sub- 
stance or  shadow,  still  or  moving,  took  the  semblance  5 
of  some  fearful  thing;  but  these  fears  were  nothing 
compared  to  the  sense  that  haunted  him  of  that  morn- 
ing's ghastly  figure  following  at  his  heels.  He  could 
trace  its  shadow  in  the  gloom,  supply  the  smallest  item 
of  the  outline,  and  note  how  stiff  and  solemn  it  seemed  10 
to  stalk  along.  He  could  hear  its  garments  rustling  in 
the  leaves;  and  every  breath  of  wind  came  laden  with 
that  last  low  cry.  If  he  stopped  it  did  the  same.  If 
he  ran,  it  followed  —  not  running  too;  that  would  have 
been  a  relief:  but  like  a  corpse  endowed  with  the  mere  15 
machinery  of  life,  and  borne  on  one  slow  melancholy 
wind  that  never  rose  or  fell. 

At  times,  he  turned,  with  desperate  determination, 
resolved  to  beat  this  phantom  off,  though  it  should  look 
him  dead;  but  the  hair  rose  on  his  head,  and  his  blood  20 
stood  still  :  for  it  had  turned  with  him  and  was  behind 
him  then.     He  had  kept  it  before  him  that  morning, 

554 


DICKENS  555 

but  it  was  behind  him  now  —  always.     He  leaned  his 
back  against  a  bank,  and  felt  that  it  stood  above  him, 
visibly  out  against  the  cold  night-sky.     He  threw  him-  25 
self  upon  the  road  —  on  his  back  upon  the  road.     At 
his  head  it  stood,  silent,  erect,  and  still  —  a  living  grave- 
stone, with  its  epitaph  in  blood. 

Let  no  man  talk  of  murderers  escaping  justice,  and 
hint  that  Providence  must  sleep.     There  were  twenty  30 
score  of  violent  deaths  in  one  long  minute  of  that  agony 
of  fear. 

There  was  a  shed  in  a  field  he  passed,  that  offered 
shelter  for  the  night.  Before  the  door,  were  three  tall 
poplar  trees,  which  made  it  very  dark  within;  and  the  35 
wind  moaned  through  them  with  a  dismal  wail.  He 
could  not  walk  on,  till  daylight  came  again;  and  here 
he  stretched  himself  close  to  the  wall  —  to  undergo  new 
torture. 

For  now,  a  vision  came  before  him,  as  constant  and  40 
more  terrible  than  that  from  which  he  had  escaped. 
Those  widely  staring  eyes,  so  lustreless  and  so  glassy, 
that  he  had  better  borne  to  see  them  than  think  upon 
them,  appeared  in  the  midst  of  the  darkness:  light  in 
themselves,  but  giving  light  to  nothing.  There  were  45 
but  two,  but  they  were  everywhere.  If  he  shut  out  the 
sight,  there  came  the  room  with  every  well-known  object 
—  some,  indeed,  that  he  would  have  forgotten,  if  he  had 
gone  over  its  contents  from  memory  —  each  in  its  accus- 
tomed place.  The  body  was  in  its  place,  and  its  eyes  50 
were  as  he  saw  them  when  he  stole  away.  He  got  up, 
and  rushed  into  the  field  without.  The  figure  was 
behind  him.  He  re-entered  the  shed,  and  shrank  down 
once  more.  The  eyes  were  there,  before  he  had  laid 
himself  along.  55 


556  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

And  here  he  remained,  in  such  terror  as  none  but  he 
can  know,  trembling  in  every  limb,  and  the  cold  sweat 
starting  from  every  pore,  when  suddenly  there  arose 
upon  the  night-wind  the  noise  of  distant  shouting,  and 
the  roar  of  voices  mingled  in  alarm  and  wonder.  Any  60 
sound  of  men  in  that  lonely  place,  even  though  it  con- 
veyed a  real  cause  of  alarm,  was  something  to  him.  He 
regained  his  strength  and  energy  at  the  prospect  of  per- 
sonal danger;  and,  springing  to  his  feet,  rushed  into  the 
open  air.  65 

The  broad  sky  seemed  on  fire.  Rising  into  the  air 
with  showers  of  sparks,  and  rolling  one  above  the  other, 
were  sheets  of  flame,  lighting  the  atmosphere  for  miles 
round,  and  driving  clouds  of  smoke  in  the  direction 
where  he  stood.  The  shouts  grew  louder  as  new  voices  70 
swelled  the  roar,  and  he  could  hear  the  cry  of  Fire ! 
mingled  with  the  ringing  of  an  alarm-bell,  the  fall  of 
heavy  bodies,  and  the  crackling  of  flames  as  they  twined 
round  some  new  obstacle,  and  shot  aloft  as  though  re- 
freshed by  food.  The  noise  increased  as  he  looked.  75 
There  were  people  there  —  men  and  women  —  light, 
bustle.  It  was  like  new  life  to  him.  He  darted  on- 
ward—  straight,  headlong  —  dashing  through  brier  and 
brake,  and  leaping  gate  and  fence  as  madly  as  the 
dog,  who  careered  with  loud  and  sounding  bark  before  80 
him. 

He  came  upon  the  spot.  There  were  half-dressed 
figures  tearing  to  and  fro,  some  endeavouring  to  drag 
the  frightened  horses  from  the  stables,  others  driving 
the  cattle  from  the  yard  and  outhouses,  and  others  com-  85 
ing  laden  from  the  burning  pile,  amidst  a  shower  of 
falling  sparks,  and  the  tumbling  down  of  redhot  beams. 
The  apertures,  where  doors  and  windows  stood  an  hour 


Die  It  ENS  557 

ago,  disclosed  a  mass  of  raging  fire;  walls  rocked  and 
crumbled  into  the  burning  well;  the  molten  lead  and  90 
iron  poured  down,  white  hot,  upon  the  ground.  Women 
and  children  shrieked,  and  men  encouraged  each  other 
with  noisy  shouts  and  cheers.  The  clanking  of  the 
engine-pumps,  and  the  spirting  and  hissing  of  the  water 
as  it  fell  upon  the  blazing  wood,  added  to  the  tremen-  95 
dous  roar.  He  shouted,  too,  till  he  was  hoarse;  and, 
flying  from  memory  and  himself,  plunged  into  the 
thickest  of  the  throng. 

Hither  and  thither  he  dived  that  night:  now  working 
at  the  pumps,  and  now  hurrying  through  the  smoke  and  100 
flame,  but  never  ceasing  to  engage  himself  wherever 
noise  and  men  were  thickest.  Up  and  down  the  lad- 
ders, upon  the  roofs  of  buildings,  over  floors  that 
quaked  and  trembled  with  his  weight,  under  the  lee 
of  falling  bricks  and  stones,  in  every  part  of  that  great  105 
fire  was  he;  but  he  bore  a  charmed  life,  and  had  neither 
scratch  nor  bruise,  nor  weariness  nor  thought,  till  morn- 
ing dawned  again,  and  only  smoke  and  blackened  ruins 
remained. 

This  mad  excitement  over,  there  returned,  with  ten-  no 
fold  force,  the  dreadful  consciousness  of  his  crime.    He 
looked  suspiciously  about  him,  for  the  men  were  con- 
versing in  groups,  and  he  feared  to  be  the  subject  of 
their  talk.     The  dog  obeyed  the  significant  beck  of  his 
finger,    and   they   drew   off,    stealthily,   together.      He  115 
passed  near  an   engine  where  some  men  were  seated, 
and  they  called  to  him  to  share  in  their  refreshment. 
He  took  some  bread  and  meat;    and  as  he   drank  a 
draught  of   beer,    heard   the  firemen,   who  were   from 
London,  talking  about  the  murder.     "  He  has  gone  to  120 
Birmingham,  they  say,"  said  one:  "but  they'll  have  him 


5S8  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

yet,   for  the  scouts  are  out,   and  by  to-morrow  night 
there'll  be  a  cry  all  through  the  country." 

He  hurried  off,  and  walked  till  he  almost  dropped 
upon  the  ground;  then  lay  down  in  a  lane,  and  had  a  125 
long,  but  broken  and  uneasy  sleep.     He  wandered  on 
again,  irresolute  and  undecided,  and  oppressed  with  the 
fear  of  another  solitary  night. 

Suddenly,  he  took  the  desperate  resolution  of  going 
back  to  London.  130 

"There's  somebody  to  speak  to  there,  at  all  events," 
bethought.  "  A  good  hiding-place,  too.  They'll  never 
expect  to  nab  me  there,  after  this  country  scent.  Why 
can't  I  lay  by  for  a  week  or  so,  and,  forcing  blunt  from 
Fagin,  get  abroad  to  France?     Damme,  I'll  risk  it."       135 

He  acted  upon  this  impulse  without  delay,  and  choos- 
ing the  least  frequented  roads  began  his  journey  back, 
resolved  to  lie  concealed  within  a  short  distance  of  the 
metropolis,  and,  entering  it  at  dusk  by  a  circuitous 
route,  to  proceed  straight  to  that  part  of  it  which  he  140 
had  fixed  on  for  his  destination. 

The  dog,  though  —  if  any  descriptions  of  him  were 
out,  it  would  not  be  forgotten  that  the  dog  was  missing, 
and  had  probably  gone  with  him.  This  might  lead  to 
his  apprehension  as  he  passed  along  the  streets.  He  145 
resolved  to  drown  him,  and  walked  on,  looking  aljout 
for  a  pond:  picking  up  a  heavy  stone  and  tying  it  to 
his  handkerchief  as  he  went. 

The  animal  looked  up  into  his  master's  face  while 
these  preparations  were  making;  and,  whether  his  in- 150 
stinct  apprehended  something  of  their  purpose,  or  the 
robber's  sidelong  look  at  him  was  sterner  than  ordinary, 
skulked  a  little  farther  in  the  rear  than  usual,  and  cow- 
ered as  he  came  more  slowly  along.     When  his  master 


DICKENS  559 

halted  at  the  brink  of  a  pool,  and  looked  round  to  call  155 
him,  he  stopped  outright. 

"Do  you  hear  me  call?     Come  here !  "  cried  Sikes. 

The  animal  came  up  from  the  very  force  of  habit;  but 
as  Sikes  stooped  to  attach  the  handkerchief  to  his  throat, 
he  uttered  a  low  growl  and  started  back.  160 

"Come  back!"  said  the  robber,  stamping  on  the 
ground. 

The  dog  wagged  his  tail,  but  moved  not.  Sikes  made 
a  running  noose  and  called  him  again. 

The    dog   advanced,    retreated,    paused    an    instant,  165 
turned,  and  scoured  away  at  his  hardest  speed. 

The  man  whistled  again  and  again,  and  sat  down  and 
waited  in  the  expectation  that  he  would  return.  But 
no  dog  appeared,  and  at  length  he  resumed  his  journey. 


A   CHRISTMAS   CAROL 

'  Christmas  at  the  Cratchits* 

Then  up  rose  Mrs.  Cratchit,  Cratchit's  wife,  dressed 
out  but  poorly  in  a  twice-turned  gown,  but  brave  in 
ribbons,  which  are  cheap  and  make  a  goodly  show  for 
sixpence;  and  she  laid  the  cloth,  assisted  by  Belinda 
Cratchit,  second  of  her  daughters,  also  brave  in  rib- 
bons; while  Master  Peter  Cratchit  plunged  a  fork  into 
the  saucepan  of  potatoes,  and  getting  the  corners  of  his 
monstrous  shirt  collar  (Bob's  private  property,  conferred 
upon  his  son  and  heir  in  honour  of  the  day)  into  his 
mouth,  rejoiced  to  find  himself  so  gallantly  attired,  and 
yearned  to  show  his  linen  in  the  fashionable  Parks. 
And  now  two  smaller  Cratchits,   boy  and  girl,  came 


560  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

tearing  in,  screaming  that  outside  the  baker's  they  had 
smelt  the  goose,  and  known  it  for  their  own;  and  bask- 
ing in  luxurious  thoughts  of  sage  and  onion,  these  young  15 
Cratchits  danced  about  the  table,  and  exalted  Master 
Peter  Cratchit  to  the  skies,  while  he  (not  proud,  al- 
though his  collar  nearly  choked  him)  blew  the  fire, 
until  the  slow  potatoes  bubbling  up,  knocked  loudly  at 
the  saucepan-lid  to  be  let  out  and  peeled.  20 

"What  has  ever  got  your  precious  father  then?"  said 
Mrs.  Cratchit.  "And  your  brother.  Tiny  Tim!  And 
Martha  warn't  as  late  last  Christmas  Day  by  half-an- 
hour ! " 

"Here's  Martha,  mother!"  said  a  girl,  appearing  as  25 
she  spoke. 

"Here's  Martha,  mother!  "  cried  the  two  young  Crat- 
chits.    "Hurrah!    There's  ^//r/i  a  goose,  Martha!  " 

"  Why,  bless  your  heart  alive,  my  dear,  how  late  you 
are !  "  said  Mrs.  Cratchit,  kissing  her  a  dozen  times,  and  30 
taking  off  her  shawl  and  bonnet  for  her  with  officious 
zeal. 

"We'd  a  deal  of  work  to  finish  up  last  night,"  replied 
the  girl,  "  and  had  to  clear  away  this  morning,  mother !  " 

"Well!     Never  mind  so  long  as  you  are  come,"  said  35 
Mrs.  Cratchit.     "  Sit  ye  down  before  the  fire,  my  dear, 
and  have  a  warm.  Lord  bless  ye !  " 

"No,  no!  There's  father  coming,"  cried  the  two 
young  Cratchits,  who  were  everywhere  at  once.  "  Hide, 
Martha,  hide !  "  40 

So  Martha  hid  herself,  and  in  came  little  Bob,  the 
father,  with  at  least  three  feet  of  comforter,  exclusive  of 
the  fringe,  hanging  down  before  him;  and  his  thread- 
bare clothes  darned  up  and  brushed  to  look  seasonable; 
and  Tiny  Tim  upon  his  shoulder.     Alas  for  Tiny  Tim,   45 


DICKENS  561 

he  bore  a  little  crutch,  and  had  his  limbs  supported  by 
an  iron  frame ! 

"Why,  Where's  our  Martha?"  cried  Bob  Cratchit, 
looking  round. 

"Not  coming,"  said  Mrs.  Cratchit.  50 

"  Not  coming ! "  said  Bob,  with  a  sudden  declension 
in  his  high  spirits;  for  he  had  been  Tim's  blood  horse 
all  the  way  from  church,  and  had  come  home  rampant. 
"  Not  coming  upon  Christmas  Day !  " 

Martha  didn't  like  to  see  him  disappointed,  if  it  were  55 
only  in  joke;  so  she  came  out  prematurely  from  behind 
the  closet  door,  and  ran  into  his  arms,  while  the  two 
young  Cratchits  hustled  Tiny  Tim,  and  bore  him  off 
into  the  wash-house,  that  he  might  hear  the  pudding 
singing  in  the  copper.  60 

"And  how  did  little  Tim  behave?"  asked  Mrs.  Crat- 
chit, when  she  had  rallied  Bob  on  his  credulity,  and 
Bob  had  hugged  his  daughter  to  his  heart's  content. 

"As  good  as  gold,"  said  Bob,  "and  better.  Somehow 
he  gets  thoughtful,  sitting  by  himself  so  much,  and  65 
thinks  the  strangest  things  you  ever  heard.  He  told 
me,  coming  home,  that  he  hoped  the  people  saw  him 
in  the  church,  because  he  was  a  cripple,  and  it  might 
be  pleasant  to  them  to  remember,  upon  Christmas  Day, 
who  made  lame  beggars  walk  and  blind  men  see."  70 

Bob's  voice  was  tremulous  when  he  told  them  this, 
and  trembled  more  when  he  said  that  Tiny  Tim  was 
growing  strong  and  hearty. 

His  active  little  crutch  was  heard  upon  the  floor,  and 
back  came  Tiny  Tim  before  another  word  was  spoken,   75 
escorted  by  his  brother  and  sister  to  his  stool  before  the 
fire;  and  while  Bob,  turning  up  his  cuffs  —  as  if,  poor 
fellow,  they  were  capable  of  being  made  more  shabby 


562  FROM   CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

—  compounded  some  hot  mixture  in  a  jug  with  gin  and 
lemons,  and  stirred  it  round  and  round  and  put  it  on  80 
the  hob  to  simmer;  Master  Peter,  and  the  two  ubiqui- 
tous young  Cratchits  went  to  fetch  the  goose,  with  which 
they  soon  returned  in  high  procession. 

Such  a  bustle  ensued  that  you  might  have  thought  a 
goose  the  rarest  of  all  birds;  a  feathered  phenomenon,  85 
to  which  a  black  swan  was  a  matter  of  course  —  and  in 
truth  it  was  something  very  like  it  in  that  house.  Mrs. 
Cratchit  made  the  gravy  (ready  beforehand  in  a  little 
saucepan)  hissing  hot;  Master  Peter  mashed  the  pota- 
toes with  incredible  vigour;  Miss  Belinda  sweetened  up  90 
the  apple  sauce;  Martha  dusted  the  hot  plates;  Bob 
took  Tiny  Tim  beside  him  in  a  tiny  cdrner  at  the  table; 
the  two  young  Cratchits  set  chairs  for  everybody,  not  for- 
getting themselves,  and  mounting  guard  upon  their  posts, 
crammed  spoons  into  their  mouths,  lest  they  should  95 
shriek  for  goose  before  their  turn  came  to  be  helped. 
At  last  the  dishes  were  set  on,  and  grace  was  said.  It 
was  succeeded  by  a  breathless  pause,  as  Mrs.  Cratchit, 
looking  slowly  all  along  the  carving-knife,  prepared  to 
plunge  it  in  the  breast;  but  when  she  did,  and  when  the  100 
long  expected  gush  of  stuffing  issued  forth,  one  murmur 
of  delight  arose  all  round  the  board,  and  even  Tiny  Tim, 
excited  by  the  two  young  Cratchits,  beat  on  the  table 
with  the  handle  of  his  knife,  and  feebly  cried  Hurrah ! 

There  never  was  such  a  goose.  Bob  said  he  didn't  105 
believe  there  ever  was  such  a  goose  cooked.  Its  tender- 
ness and  flavour,  size  and  cheapness,  were  the  themes  of 
universal  admiration.  Eked  out  by  the  apple  sauce  and 
mashed  potatoes,  it  was  a  sufficient  dinner  for  the  whole 
family;  indeed,  as  Mrs.  Cratchit  said  with  great  delight  no 
(surveying  one  small  atom  of  a  bone  upon  the  dish),  they 


DICKENS  563 

hadn't  ate  it  all  at  last !  Yet  every  one  had  had  enough, 
and  the  youngest  Cratchits,  in  particular,  were  steeped 
in  sage  and  onion  to  the  eyebrows !  But  now,  the  plates 
being  changed  by  Miss  Belinda,  Mrs.  Cratchit  left  the  115 
room  alone  —  too  nervous  to  bear  witnesses  —  to  take  the 
pudding  up  and  bring  it  in. 

Suppose  it  should  not  be  done  enough !  Suppose  it 
should  break  in  turning  out !  Suppose  somebody  should 
have  got  over  the  wall  of  the  back-yard,  and  stolen  it,  120 
while  they  were  merry  with  the  goose  —  a  supposition  at 
which  the  two  young  Cratchits  became  livid !  All  sorts 
of  horrors  were  supposed. 

Hallo !  A  great  deal  of  steam !  The  pudding  was  out 
of  the  copper.  A  smell  like  a  washing-day !  That  was  125 
the  cloth.  A  smell  like  an  eating-house  and  a  pastry- 
cook's next  door  to  each  other,  with  a  laundress's  next 
door  to  that !  That  was  the  pudding !  In  half  a  minute 
Mrs.  Cratchit  entered  —  flushed,  but  smiling  proudly  — 
with  the  pudding,  like  a  speckled  cannon-ball,  so  hard  13a 
and  firm,  blazing  in  half  of  half-a-quartern  of  ignited 
brandy,  and  bedight  with  Christmas  holly  stuck  into  the 
top. 

Oh,  a  wonderful  pudding!  Bob  Cratchit  said,  and 
calmly  too,  that  he  regarded  it  as  the  greatest  success  135 
achieved  by  Mrs.  Cratchit  since  their  marriage.  Mrs. 
Cratchit  said  that  now  the  weight  was  off  her  mind,  she 
would  confess  she  had  had  her  doubts  about  the  quantity 
of  flour.  Everybody  had  something  to  say  about  it,  but 
nobody  said  or  thought  it  was  at  all  a  small  pudding  for  140 
a  large  family.  It  would  have  been  flat  heresy  to  do  so. 
Any  Cratchit  would  have  blushed  to  hint  at  such  a  thing. 

At  last  the  dinner  was  all  done,  the  cloth  was  cleared, 
the  hearth  swept,  and  the  fire  made  up.     The  compound 


564  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

in  the  jug  being  tasted,  and  considered  perfect,  apples  145 
and  oranges  were  put  upon  the  table,  and  a  shovel- full 
of  chestnuts  on  the  fire.  Then  all  the  Cratch  it  family 
drew  round  the  hearth,  in  what  Bob  Cratchit  called  a 
circle,  meaning  half  a  one;  and  at  Bob  Cratchit's  elbow 
stood  the  family  display  of  glass.  Two  tumblers,  and  a  150 
custard-cup  without  a  handle. 

These  held  the  hot  stuff  from  the  jug,  however,  as  well 
as  golden  goblets  would  have  done ;  and  Bob  served  it 
out  with  beaming  looks,  while  the  chestnuts  on  the  fire 
sputtered  and  cracked  noisily.     Then  Bob  proposed :       155 

"A  Merry  Christmas  to  us  all,  my  dears.  God  bless 
us!" 

Which  all  the  family  re-echoed. 

"God  bless  us  every  one !  "  said  Tiny  Tim,  the  last  of 
all.  160 

He  sat  very  close  to  his  father's  side  upon  his  little 
stool.  Bob  held  his  withered  little  hand  in  his,  as  if 
he  loved  the  child,  and  wished  to  keep  him  by  his  side, 
and  dreaded  that  he  might  be  taken  from  him. 


THE   UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER 
The  Very  Queer  Small  Boy 

I  GOT  into  the  travelling  chariot  —  it  was  of  German 
make,  roomy,  heavy,  and  unvarnished  —  I  got  into  the 
travelling  chariot,  pulled  up  the  steps  after  me,  shut 
myself  in  with  a  smart  bang  of  the  door,  and  gave  the 
word,  "Goon!" 

Immediately,  all  that  W.  and  S.W.  division  of  London 
began  to  slide  away  at  a  pace  so  lively,  that  I  was  over 


DICKENS  565 

the  river,  and  past  the  Old  Kent  Road,  and   out  on 
Blackheath,  and  even  ascending  Shooter's  Hill,  before 
I  had  had  time  to  look  about  me  in  the  carriage,  like  a  10 
collected  traveller. 

I  had  two  ample  Imperials  on  the  roof,  other  fitted 
storage  for  luggage  in  front,  and  other  up  behind;  I 
had  a  net  for  books  overhead,  great  pockets  to  all  the 
windows,  a  leathern  pouch  or  two  hung  up  for  odds  and  15 
ends,  and  a  reading  lamp  fixed  in  the  back  of  the 
chariot,  in  case  I  should  be  benighted.  I  was  amply 
provided  in  all  respects,  and  had  no  idea  where  I  was 
going  (which  was  delightful),  except  that  I  was  going 
abroad.  20 

So  smooth  was  the  old  high  road,  and  so  fresh  were 
the  horses,  and  so  fast  went  I,  that  it  was  midway  be- 
tween Gravesend  and  Rochester,  and  the  widening  river 
was  bearing  the  ships,  white-sailed  or  black-smoked,  out 
to  sea,  when  I  noticed  by  the  wayside  a  very  queer  small  25 
boy. 

"  Halloa !  "  said  I,  to  the  very  queer  small  boy,  "  where 
do  you  live  ?  " 

"At  Chatham,"  says  he. 

"  What  do  you  do  there  ?  "  says  I.  30 

"I  go  to  school,"  says  he. 

I  took  him  up  in  a  moment,  and  we  went  on.  Pres- 
ently, the  very  queer  small  boy  says,  "This  is  Gads-hill 
we  are  coming  to,  where  Falstaff  went  out  to  rob  those 
travellers,  and  ran  away."  35 

"You  know  something  about  Falstaff,  eh?"  said  I. 

"All  about  him,"  said  the  very  queer  small  boy.  "I 
am  old  (I  am  nine),  and  I  read  all  sorts  of  books.  But 
do  let  us  stop  at  the  top  of  the  hill,  and  look  at  the 
house  there,  if  you  please !  "  4° 


566  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

"You  admire  that  house?"  said  I. 

"Bless  you,  sir,"  said  the  very  queer  small  boy,  "when 
I  was  not  more  than  half  as  old  as  nine,  it  used  to  be  a 
treat  for  me  to  be  brought  to  look  at  it.  And  now  I  am 
nine,  I  come  by  myself  to  look  at  it.  And  ever  since  I  45 
can  recollect,  my  father,  seeing  me  so  fond  of  it,  has 
often  said  to  me,  *  If  you  were  to  be  very  persevering 
and  were  to  work  hard,  you  might  some  day  come  to  live 
in  it.'  Though  that's  impossible!  "  said  the  very  queer 
small  boy,  drawing  a  low  breath,  and  now  staring  at  the  50 
house  out  of  window  with  all  his  might. 

I  was  rather  amazed  to  be  told  this  by  the  very  queer 
small  boy;  for  that  house  happens  to  be  my  house,  and 
I  have  reason  to  believe  that  what  he  said  was  true. 

Well !   I  made  no  halt  there,  and  I  soon  dropped  the  53 
very  queer  small  boy  and  went  on. 


ROBERT   BROWNING 

(i8i3-i88g) 

WANTING  IS  — WHAT? 

Wanting  is  —  what  ? 
Summer  redundant, 
Blueness  abundant, 

—  Where  is  the  spot? 

Beamy  the  world,  yet  a  blank  all  the  same, 

—  Framework  which  waits  for  a  picture  to  frame : 
What  of  the  leafage,  what  of  the  flower? 

Roses  embowering  with  nought  they  embower! 
Come  then,  complete  incompletion,  O  Comer, 
Pant  through  the  blueness,  perfect  the  summer  ! 
Breathe  but  one  breath 
Rose-beauty  above. 
And  all  that  was  death 
Grows  life,  grows  love, 
Grows  love ! 

MY   STAR 

All  that  I  know 

Of  a  certain  star 
Is,  it  can  throw 

(Like  the  angled  spar) 
Now  a  dart  of  red, 

Now  a  dart  of  blue  ; 
Till  my  friends  have  said 
567 


568  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

They  would  fain  see,  too, 
My  star  that  dartles  the  red  and  the  blue ! 
Then  it  stops  like  a  bird;  like  a  flower,  hangs  furled: 

They  must  solace  themselves  with  the  Saturn  above  it. 
What  matter  to  me  if  their  star  is  a  world  ? 

Mine  has  opened  its  soul  to  me;  therefore  I  love  it. 


PIPPA'S   SONG 

The  year's  at  the  spring, 
And  day's  at  the  morn; 
Morning's  at  seven; 
The  hill-side's  dew-pearled; 
The  lark's  on  the  wing; 
The  snail's  on  the  thorn: 
God's  in  his  heaven  — 
All's  right  with  the  world! 


CONFESSIONS 
I 

What  is  he  buzzing  in  my  ears? 

"Now  that  I  come  to  die. 
Do  I  view  the  world  as  a  vale  of  tears?  " 

Ah,  reverend  sir,  not  I ! 


What  I  viewed  there  once,  what  I  view  again 

Where  the  physic  bottles  stand 
On  the  table's  edge, —  is  a  suburb  lane. 

With  a  wall  to  my  bedside  hand. 


BROWNING  569 


That  lane  sloped,  much  as  the  bottles  do, 
From  a  house  you  could  descry 

O'er  the  garden-wall:  is  the  curtain  blue 
Or  green  to  a  healthy  eye? 


IV 


To  mine,  it  serves  for  the  old  June  weather 

Blue  above  lane  and  wall; 
And  that  farthest  bottle  labelled  "  Ether  " 

Is  the  house  o'er-topping  all. 


At  a  terrace,  somewhat  near  the  stopper. 

There  watched  for  me,  one  June, 
A  girl:  I  know,  sir,  it's  improper. 

My  poor  mind's  out  of  tune.  20 

VI 

Only,  there  was  a  way  .  .  .  you  crept 

Close  by  the  side,  to  dodge 
Eyes  in  the  house,  two  eyes  except: 

They  styled  their  house  "The  Lodge." 

vn 

What  right  had  a  lounger  up  their  lane?  25 

But,  by  creeping  very  close. 
With  the  good  wall's  help, —  their  eyes  might  strain 

And  stretch  themselves  to  Oes, 


57©  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

vra 
Yet  never  catch  her  and  me  together. 

As  she  left  the  attic,  there,  30 

By  the  rim  of  the  bottle  labelled  "Ether," 

And  stole  from  stair  to  stair, 

IX 

And  stood  by  the  rose-wreathed  gate.     Alas, 

We  loved,  sir  —  used  to  meet  : 
How  sad  and  bad  and  mad  it  was  —  35 

But  then,  how  it  was  sweet ! 


RESPECTABILITY 
I 
Dear,  had  the  world  in  its  caprice 

Deigned  to  proclaim  "  I  know  you  both. 

Have  recognized  your  plighted  troth. 
Am  sponsor  for  you :  live  in  peace !  "  — 
How  many  precious  months  and  years  5 

Of  youth  had  passed,  that  speed  so  fast. 

Before  we  found  it  out  at  last, 
The  world,  and  what  it  fears? 

n 

How  much  of  priceless  life  were  spent 

With  men  that  every  virtue  decks,  10 

And  women  models  of  their  sex. 
Society's  true  ornament,  — 
Ere  we  dared  wander,  nights  like  this, 

Through  wind  and  rain,  and  watch  the  Seine, 

And  feel  the  Boulevart  break  again  15 

To  warmth  and  light  and  bliss? 


BROWNING  571 

III 
I  know!  the  world  proscribes  not  love; 

Allows  my  finger  to  caress 

Your  lips'  contour  and  downiness. 
Provided  it  supply  a  glove.  m 

The  world's  good  word!  —  the  Institute! 

Guizot  receives  Montalembert ! 

Eh?     Down  the  court  three  lampions  flare: 
Put  forward  your  best  foot ! 


HOME   THOUGHTS,   FROM   ABROAD 

Oh,  to  be  in  England  now  that  April's  there, 
And  whoever  wakes  in  England  sees,  some  morning,  una- 
ware. 
That  the  lowest  boughs  and  the  brushwood  sheaf 
Round  the  elm-tree  bole  are  in  tiny  leaf, 
While  the  chafifinch  sings  on  the  orchard  bough  5 

In  England  —  now! 
And  after  April,  when  May  follows 
And  the  white-throat  builds,  and  all  the  swallows ! 
Hark,  where  my  blossomed  pear-tree  in  the  hedge 
Leans  to  the  field  and  scatters  on  the  clover  10 

Blossoms  and  dewdrops  —  at  the  bent  spray's  edge  — 
That's  the  wise  thrush:  he  sings  each  song  twice  over 
Lest  you  should  think  he  never  could  recapture 
The  first  fine  careless  rapture ! 

And  though  the  fields  look  rough  with  hoary  dew,  15 

And  will  be  gay  when  noontide  wakes  anew 
The  buttercups,  the  little  children's  dower 
—  Far  brighter  than  this  gaudy  melon-flower  I 


572  FROryl  CHAUCER    TO  AR.YOLD 

HOME   THOUGHTS,   FROM   THE   SEA 

Nobly,  nobly  Cape  Saint  Vincent  to  the  north-west  died 

away; 
Sunset  ran,  one  glorious  blood-red,  reeking  into  Cadiz 

Bay; 
Bluish  mid  the  burning  water,  full  in  face  Trafalgar  lay; 
In  the  dimmest  north-east  distance,  dawned  Gibraltar 

grand  and  gray; 
"  Here  and  here  did  England  help  me, —  how  can  I  help    5 

England  ?  "  —  say, 
Whoso  turns  as  I,  this  evening,  turn  to  God  to  praise 

and  pray, 
While  Jove's  planet  rises  yonder,  silent  over  Africa. 


PROSPICE 


Fear  death?  —  to  feel  the  fog  in  my  throat, 

The  mist  in  my  face. 
When  the  snows  begin,  and  the  blasts  denote 

I  am  nearing  the  place, 
The  power  of  the  night,  the  press  of  the  storm,  5 

The  post  of  the  foe; 
Where  he  stands,  the  Arch  Fear  in  a  visible  form, 

Yet  the  strong  man  must  go : 
For  the  journey  is  done  and  the  summit  attained. 

And  the  barriers  fall,  10 

Though  a  battle's  to  fight  ere  the  guerdon  be  gained, 

The  reward  of  it  all. 
I  was  ever  a  fighter,  so  —  one  fight  more. 

The  best  and  the  last  ! 
I  would  hate  that  death  bandaged  my  eyes,  and  forbore,  15 

And  bade  me  creep  past. 


BROWNING  573 

No !  let  me  taste  the  whole  of  it,  fare  like  my  peers 

The  heroes  of  old, 
Bear  the  brunt,  in  a  minute  pay  glad  life's  arrears 

Of  pain,  darkness  and  cold.  20 

For  sudden  the  worst  turns  the  best  to  the  brave, 

The  black  minute's  at  end, 
And  the  elements'  rage,  the  fiend-voices  that  rave, 

Shall  dwindle,  shall  blend, 
Shall  change,  shall  become  first  a  peace  out  of  pain,      25 

Then  a  light,  then  thy  breast, 
O  thou  soul  of  my  soul  ! 

I  shall  clasp  thee  again. 
And  with  God  be  the  rest ! 


MEMORABILIA 
I 

Ah,  did  you  once  see  Shelley  plain, 
And  did  he  stop  and  speak  to  you, 

And  did  you  speak  to  him  again? 
How  strange  it  seems,  and  new ! 

II 
But  you  were  living  before  that, 

And  also  you  are  living  after; 
And  the  memory  I  started  at  — 

My  starting  moves  your  laughter ! 

m 

I  crossed  a  moor,  with  a  name  of  its  own 
And  a  certain  use  in  the  world,  no  doubt, 

Yet  a  hand's-breadth  of  it  shines  alone 
'Mid  the  blank  miles  round  about; 


574  FHOM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

IV 

For  there  I  picked  up  on  the  heather 
And  there  I  put  inside  my  breast 

A  moulted  feather,  an  eagle-feather !  15 

Well,  I  forget  the  rest. 


DEATH   IN   THE   DESERT 

'^Three  Souls,  One  Man  " 

"Three  souls  which  make  up  one  soul;  first,  to  wit, 

A  soul  of  each  and  all  the  bodily  parts, 

Seated  therein,  which  works,  and  is  what  Does, 

And  has  the  use  of  earth,  and  ends  the  man 

Downward;  but  tending  upward  for  advice,  5 

Grows  into,  and  again  is  grown  into 

By  the  next  soul,  which,  seated  in  the  brain, 

Useth  the  first  with  its  collected  use. 

And  feeleth,  thinketh,  willeth, —  is  what  Knows: 

Which  duly  tending  upward  in  its  turn,  10 

Grows  into,  and  again  is  grown  into 

By  the  last  soul,  that  uses  both  the  first. 

Subsisting  whether  they  assist  or  no, 

And,  constituting  man's  self,  is  what  Is  — 

And  leans  upon  the  former,  makes  it  play,  15 

As  that  played  off  the  first :  and,  tending  up. 

Holds,  is  upheld  by,  God,  and  ends  the  man 

Upward  in  that  dread  point  of  intercourse. 

Nor  needs  a  place,  for  it  returns  to  Him. 

What  Does,  what  Knows,  what  Is;  three  souls,  one  man."  20 


GEORGE    ELIOT 
(1819-1880) 

ADAM   BEDE 
A  Farm  House 

EvTOENTLY  that  gate  is  never  opened:  for  the  long 
grass  and  the  great  hemlocks  grow  close  against  it;  and 
if  it  were  opened,  it  is  so  rusty,  that  the  force  necessary 
to  turn  it  on  its  hinges  would  be  likely  to  pull  down  the 
square  stone-built  pillars,  to  the  detriment  of  the  two  5 
stone  lionesses  which  grin  with  a  carnivorous  affability 
above  a  coat  of  arms  surmounting  each  of  the  pillars. 
It  would  be  easy  enough,  by  the  aid  of  the  nicks  in  the 
stone  pillars,  to  climb  over  the  brick  wall  with  its  smooth 
stone  coping;  but  by  putting  our  eyes  close  to  the  rusty  10 
bars  of  the  gate,  we  can  see  the  house  well  enough,  and 
all  but  the  very  corners  of  the  grassy  enclosure. 

It  is  a  very  fine  old  place,  of  red  brick,  softened  by 
a  pale  powdery  lichen,  which  has  dispersed  itself  with  a 
happy  irregularity,  so  as  to  bring  the  red  brick  into  15 
terms  of  friendly  companionship  with  the  limestone  or- 
naments surrounding  the  three  gables,  the  windows,  and 
the  door-place.  But  the  windows  are  patched  with 
wooden  panes,  and  the  door,  I  think,  is  like  the  gate 
—  it  is  never  opened :  how  it  would  groan  and  grate  20 
against  the  stone  floor  if  it  were !  For  it  is  a  solid, 
heavy,  handsome  door,  and  must  once  have  been  in  the 
habit  of  shutting  with  a  sonorous  bang  behind  a  liveried 

575 


576  FROM  CHAUCER   TO  ARNOLD 

lackey,  who  had  just  seen  his  master  and  mistress  off  the 
grounds  in  a  carriage  and  pair.  25 

But  at  present  one  might  fancy  the  house  in  the  early 
stage  of  a  chancery  suit,  and  that  the  fruit  from  that 
grand  double  row  of  walnut-trees  on  the  right  hand  of 
the  enclosure  would  fall  and  rot  among  the  grass,  if  it 
were  not  that  we  heard  the  booming  bark  of  dogs  echo-  30 
ing  from  great  buildings  at  the  back.  And  now  the  half- 
weaned  calves  that  have  been  sheltering  themselves  in  a 
gorse-built  hovel  against  the  left-hand  wall,  come  out 
and  set  up  a  silly  answer  to  that  terrible  bark,  doubtless 
supposing  that  it  has  reference  to  buckets  of  milk.  35 

Yes,  the  house  must  be  inhabited,  and  we  will  see  by 
whom;  for  imagination  is  a  licensed  trespasser;  it  has 
no  fear  of  dogs,'  but  may  climb  over  walls  and  peep  in 
at  windows  with  impunity.  Put  your  face  to  one  of  the 
glass  panes  in  the  right-hand  window;  what  do  you  see?  40 
A  large  open  fireplace,  with  rusty  dogs  in  it,  and  a  bare- 
boarded  floor;  at  the  far  end,  fleeces  of  wool  stacked 
up;  in  the  middle  of  the  floor,  some  empty  corn-bags. 
That  is  the  furniture  of  the  dining-room.  And  what 
through  the  left-hand  window?  Several  clothes-horses,  45 
a  pillion,  a  spinning-wheel,  and  an  old  box  wide  open, 
and  stuffed  full  of  coloured  rags.  At  the  edge  of  this 
box  there  lies  a  great  wooden  doll,  which,  so  far  as 
mutilation  is  concerned,  bears  a  strong  resemblance  to 
the  finest  Greek  sculpture,  and  especially  in  the  total  50 
loss  of  its  nose.  Near  it  there  is  a  little  chair,  and  the 
butt-end  of  a  boy's  leather  long-lashed  whip. 

The  history  of  the  house  is  plain  now.     It  was  once 
the  residence  of  a  country  squire,  whose  family,  prob- 
ably dwindling  down  to  mere  spinsterhood,  got  merged  55 
in  the  more  territorial  name  of  Donnithorne.     It  was 


ELIOT  577 

once  the  Hall;  it  is  now  the  Hall  Farm.  Like  the  life 
in  some  coast  town  that  was  once  a  watering-place,  and 
is  now  a  port,  where  the  genteel  streets  are  silent  and 
grass-grown,  and  the  docks  and  warehouses  busy  and  res-  60 
onant,  the  life  at  the  Hall  has  changed  its  focus,  and  no 
longer  radiates  from  the  parlour,  but  from  the  kitchen 
and  the  farm -yard. 

Plenty  of  life  there !  though  this  is  the  drowsiest  time 
of  the  year,  just  before  the  hay-harvest;  and  it  is  the  65 
drowsiest  time  of  the  day  too,  for  it  is  close  upon  three 
by  the  sun,  and  it  is  half-past  three  by  Mrs.  Poyser's 
handsome  eight  day  clock.  But  there  is  always  a 
stronger  sense  of  life  when  the  sun  is  brilliant  after 
rain;  and  now  he  is  pouring  down  his  beams,  and  mak-  70 
ing  sparks  among  the  wet  straw,  and  lighting  up  every 
patch  of  vivid  green  moss  on  the  red  tiles  of  the  cow- 
shed, and  turning  even  the  muddy  water  that  is  hurrying 
along  the  channel  to  the  drain  into  a  mirror  for  the  yel- 
low-billed ducks,  who  are  seizing  the  opportunity  of  get-  75 
ting  a  drink  with  as  much  body  in  it  as  possible.  There 
is  quite  a  concert  of  noises :  the  great  bull-dog,  chained 
against  the  stables,  is  thrown  into  furious  exasperation 
by  the  unwary  approach  of  a  cock  too  near  the  mouth  of 
his  kennel,  and  sends  forth  a  thundering  bark,  which  is  80 
answered  by  two  fox-hounds  shut  up  in  the  opposite 
cow-house;  the  old  top-knotted  hens,  scratching  with 
their  chicks  among  the  straw,  set  up  a  sympathetic 
croaking  as  the  discomfited  cock  joins  them;  a  sow 
with  her  brood,  all  very  muddy  as  to  the  legs,  and  85 
curled  as  to  the  tail,  throws  in  some  deep  staccato 
notes;  our  friends  the  calves  are  bleating  from  the  same 
home  croft;  and  under  all  a  fine  ear  discerns  the  con- 
tinuous hum  of  human  voices. 

2P 


578  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

For  the  great  barn-doors  are  thrown  wide  open,  and  90 
men  are  busy  there  mending  the  harness,  under  the  super- 
intendence of  Mr.  Goby,  the  "whittaw,"  otherwise  sad- 
dler, who  entertains  them  with  the  latest  Treddleston 
gossip.     It  is  certainly  rather  an  unfortunate  day  that 
Alick,  the  shepherd,  has  chosen  for  having  the  whit-  95 
taws,  since  the  morning  turned  out  so  wet;    and  Mrs. 
Poyser  had  spoken  her  mind  pretty  strongly  as  to  the 
dirt  which  the  extra  number  of  men's  shoes  brought 
into  the  house  at  dinner-time.     Indeed  she  has  not  yet 
recovered  her  equanimity  on  the  subject,  though  it  is  100 
now  nearly  three  hours  since  dinner,  and  the  house  floor 
is  perfectly  clean  again;  as  clean  as  everything  else  in 
that  wonderful  house-place,  where  the  only  chance  of 
collecting  a  few  grains  of  dust  would  be  to  climb  on  the 
salt-coffer,  and  put  your  finger  on  the  high  mantel-shelf  105 
on  which  the  glittering  brass  candle-sticks  are  enjoying 
their  summer  sinecure;    for  at  this  time  of   year,   of 
course,  every  one  goes  to  bed  while  it  is  yet  light,  or 
at  least  light  enough  to  discern  the  outline  of  objects 
after  you  have  bruised  your  shins  against  them.     Surely  no 
nowhere  else  could  an  oak  clock-case  and  an  oak  table 
have  got  such  a  polish  by  the  hand:  genuine  "elbow 
polish,"  as  Mrs.  Poyser  called  it,  for  she  thanked  God 
she  never  had  any  of   your  varnished  rubbish  in  her 
house.     Hetty  Sorrel  often  took  the  opportunity,  when  115 
her  aunt's  back  was  turned,  of  looking  at  the  pleasant 
reflection  of  herself  in  those  polished  surfaces,  for  the  oak 
table  was  usually  turned  up  like  a  screen,  and  was  more  for 
ornament  than  for  use ;  and  she  could  see  herself  some- 
times in  the  great  round  pewter  dishes  that  were  ranged  120 
on  the  shelves  above  the  long  deal  dinner  table,  or  in 
the  hobs  of  the  grate,  which  always  shone  like  jasper. 


ELIOT  579 

Everything  was  looking  at  its  brightest  at  this  mo- 
ment, for  the  sun  shone  right  on  the  pewter  dishes, 
and  from  their  reflecting  surfaces  pleasant  jets  of  light  125 
were  thrown  on  mellow  oak  and  bright  brass; — and  on 
a  still  pleasanter  object  than  these;  for  some  of  the  rays 
fell  on  Dinah's  finely  moulded  cheek,  and  lit  up  her 
pale  red  hair  to  auburn,  as  she  bent  over  the  heavy 
household  linen  which  she  was  mending  for  her  aunt.  130 
No  scene  could  have  been  more  peaceful ;  if  Mrs.  Pey- 
ser, who  was  ironing  a  few  things  that  still  remained 
from  the  Monday's  wash,  had  not  been  making  frequent 
clinking  with  her  iron,  and  moving  to  and  fro  whenever 
she  wanted  it  to  cool;  carrying  the  keen  glance  of  her  135 
blue-gray  eye  from  the  kitchen  to  the  dairy,  where  Hetty 
was  making  up  the  butter,  and  from  the  dairy  to  the 
back-kitchen,  where  Nancy  was  taking  the  pies  out  of 
the  oven.  Do  not  suppose,  however,  that  Mrs.  Poyser 
was  elderly  or  shrewish  in  her  appearance;  she  was  a  140 
good-looking  woman,  not  more  than  eight-and-thirty, 
of  fair  complexion  and  sandy  hair,  well-shapen,  light- 
footed  :  the  most  conspicuous  article  in  her  attire  was 
an  ample,  checkered  linen  apron,  which  almost  covered 
her  skirt;  and  nothing  could  be  plainer  or  less  notice- 145 
able  than  her  cap  and  gown,  for  there  was  no  weakness 
of  which  she  was  less  tolerant  than  feminine  vanity,  and 
the  preference  of  ornament  to  utility.  The  family  like- 
ness between  her  and  her  niece  Dinah  Morris,  with  the 
contrast  between  her  keenness  and  Dinah's  seraphic  gen- 150 
tleness  of  expression,  might  have  served  a  painter  as  an 
excellent  suggestion  for  a  Martha  and  Mary.  Their  eyes 
were  just  of  the  same  colour,  but  a  striking  test  of  the 
difference  in  their  operation  was  seen  in  the  demeanour 
of  Trip,  the  black-and-tan  terrier,  whenever  that  much- 155 


58o  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

suspected  dog  unwarily  exposed  himself  to  the  freezing 
arctic  ray  of  Mrs.  Poyser's  glances.  Her  tongue  was 
not  less  keen  than  her  eye,  and,  whenever  a  damsel 
came  within  earshot,  seemed  to  take  up  an  unfinished 
lecture,  as  a  barrel-organ  takes  up  a  tune,  precisely  at  160 
the  point  where  it  had  left  off. 


ROMOLA 
Savonarola's  Benediction 

About  ten  o'clock  on  the  morning  of  the  twenty- 
seventh  of  February  the  currents  of  passengers  along  the 
Florentine  streets  set  decidedly  towards  San  Marco.  It 
was  the  last  morning  of  the  Carnival,  and  every  one 
knew  there  was  a  second  Bonfire  of  Vanities  being  pre-  5 
pared  in  front  of  the  Old  Palace;  but  at  this  hour  it 
was  evident  that  the  centre  of  popular  interest  lay  else- 
where. 

The  Piazza  di  San  Marco  was  filled  by  a  multitude 
who  showed  no  other  movement  than  that  which  pro-  10 
ceeded  from  the  pressure  of  new  comers  trying  to  force 
their  way  forward  from  all  the  openings,  but  the  front 
ranks  were  already  close-serried,  and  resisted  the  press- 
ure. Those  ranks  were  ranged  around  a  semicircular 
barrier  in  front  of  the  church,  and  within  this  barrier  15 
were  already  assembling  the  Dominican  Brethren  of  San 
Marco. 

But  the   temporary  wooden  pulpit  erected  over  the 
church-door  was  still   empty.      It  was  presently  to  be 
entered  by  the  man  whom  the  Pope's  command  had  20 
banished  from  the  pulpit  of  the  Duomo,  whom  the  other 


ELIOT  581 

ecclesiastics  of  Florence  had  been  forbidden  to  consort 
with,  whom  the  citizens  had  been  forbidden  to  hear  on 
pain  of  excommunication.  This  man  had  said,  "A 
wicked,  unbelieving  Pope  who  had  gained  the  pontifi-  25 
cal  chair  by  bribery  is  not  Christ's  Vicar.  His  curses 
are  broken  swords:  he  grasps  a  hilt  without  a  blade. 
His  commands  are  contrary  to  the  Christian  life:  it  is 
lawful  to  disobey  them  —  nay,  it  is  not  lawful  to  obey 
them  J"  And  the  people  still  flocked  to  hear  him  as  he  30 
preached  in  his  own  church  of  San  Marco,  though  the 
Pope  was  hanging  terrible  threats  over  Florence  if  it 
did  not  renounce  the  pestilential  schismatic,  and  send 
him  to  Rome  to  be  "converted"  —  still,  as  on  this  very 
morning,  accepted  the  Communion  from  his  excommu-  35 
nicated  hands.  For  how  if  this  Frate  had  really  more 
command  over  the  Divine  lightnings  than  that  official 
successor  of  Saint  Peter?  It  was  a  momentous  question, 
which  for  the  mass  of  citizens  could  never  be  decided 
by  the  Frate 's  ultimate  test,  namely,  what  was  and  what  40 
was  not  accordant  with  the  highest  spiritual  law.  No; 
in  such  a  case  as  this,  if  God  had  chosen  the  Frate  as 
his  prophet  to  rebuke  the  High  Priest  who  carried  the 
mystic  raiment  unworthily,  he  would  attest  his  choice 
by  some  unmistakable  sign.  As  long  as  the  belief  in  45 
the  prophet  carried  no  threat  of  outward  calamity,  but 
rather  the  confident  hope  of  exceptional  safety,  no  sign 
was  needed;  his  preaching  was  a  music  to  which  the 
people  felt  themselves  marching  along  the  way  they 
wished  to  go;  but  now  that  belief  meant  an  immediate  50 
blow  to  their  commerce,  the  shaking  of  their  position 
among  the  Italian  States,  and  an  interdict  on  their  city, 
there  inevitably  came  the  question,  "  What  miracle  show- 
est  thou?"     Slowly  at  first,  then  faster  and  faster,  that 


582  FROM   CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

fatal  demand  had  been  swelling  in  Savonarola's  ear,  pro-  55 
yoking  a  response,  outwardly  in  the  declaration  that  at 
the  fitting  time  the  miracle  would  come;  inwardly  in 
the  faith  —  not  unwavering,  for  what  faith  is  so?  —  that 
if  the  need  for  miracle  became  urgent,  the  work  he  had 
before  him  was  too  great  for  the  Divine  power  to  leave  60 
it  halting.  His  faith  wavered,  but  not  his  speech;  it 
is  the  lot  of  every  man  who  has  to  speak  for  the  satisfac- 
tion of  the  crowd,  that  he  must  often  speak  in  virtue  of 
yesterday's  faith,  hoping  it  will  come  back  to-morrow. 

It  was  in  preparation  for  a  scene,  which  was  really  a  65 
response  to  the  popular  impatience  for  some  supernatu- 
ral guarantee  of  the  Prophet's  mission,  that  the  wooden 
pulpit  had  been  erected  above  the  church  door.  But 
while  the  ordinary  Frati  in  black  mantles  were  entering 
and  arranging  themselves,  the  faces  of  the  multitude  70 
were  not  yet  eagerly  directed  towards  the  pulpit;  it 
was  felt  that  Savonarola  would  not  appear  just  yet,  and 
there  was  some  interest  in  singling  out  the  various 
monks,  some  of  them  belonging  to  high  Florentine  fam- 
ilies, many  of  them  having  fathers,  brothers,  or  cousins  75 
among  the  artisans  and  shopkeepers  who  made  the  ma- 
jority of  the  crowd.  It  was  not  till  the  tale  of  monks 
was  complete,  not  till  they  had  fluttered  their  books  and 
had  begun  to  chant,  that  people  said  to  each  other, 
"Fra  Girolamo  must  be  coming  now."  80 

That  expectation  rather  than  any  spell  from  the  accus- 
tomed wail  of  psalmody  was  what  made  silence,  and 
expectation  seemed  to  spread  like  a  paling  solemn  light 
over  the  multitude  of  upturned  faces,  all  now  directed 
towards  the  empty  pulpit.  85 

The  next  instant  the  pulpit  was  no  longer  empty.  A 
figure  covered  from  head   to  foot   in  black  cowl  and 


ELIOT  583 

mantle  had  entered  it,  and  was  kneeling  with  bent  head 
and  with  face  turned  away.  It  seemed  a  weary  time  to 
the  eager  people  while  the  black  figure  knelt  and  the  90 
monks  chanted.  But  the  stillness  was  not  broken,  for 
the  Frate's  audiences  with  heaven  were  yet  charged  with 
electric  awe  for  that  mixed  multitude,  so  that  those  who 
already  had  the  will  to  stone  him  felt  their  arms  unnerved. 

At  last  there  was  a  vibration  among  the  multitude,   95 
each  seeming  to  give  his  neighbour  a  momentary  aspen- 
like touch,  as  when  men  who  have  been  watching  for 
something  in  the  heavens  see  the  expected  presence 
silently  disclosing  itself.     The  Frate  had  risen,  turned 
towards  the  people,  and  partly  pushed  back  his  cowl.  100 
The  monotonous  wail  of  psalmody  had  ceased,  and  to 
those  who  stood  near  the  pulpit,  it  was  as  if  the  sounds 
which  had   just  been  filling  their  ears   had   suddenly 
merged  themselves  in  the  force  of  Savonarola's  flaming 
glance  as  he  looked  round  him  in  the  silence.     Then  he  105 
stretched  out  his  hands,  which,  in  their  exquisite  deli- 
cacy, seemed  transfigured  from   an   animal   organ   for 
grasping  into  vehicles  of  sensibility  too  acute  to  need 
any  gross  contact,  hands  that  came  like  an  appealing 
speech  from  that  part  of  his  soul  which  was  masked  by  no 
his  strong  passionate  face,  written  on  now  with  deeper 
lines  about  the  mouth  and  brow  than  are  made  by  forty- 
four  years  of  ordinary  life. 

At  the  first  stretching  out  of  the  hands  some  of  the 
crowd  in  the  front  ranks  fell  on  their  knees,  and  here  115 
and  there  a  devout  disciple  farther  off;  but  the  great 
majority  stood  firm,  some  resisting  the  impulse  to  kneel 
before  this  excommunicated  man  (might  not  a  great 
judgment  fall  upon  him  even  in  this  act  of  blessing?) 
—  others  jarred  with  scorn  and  hatred  of  the  ambitious  120 


584  FROM   CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

deceiver  who  was  getting  up  this  new  comedy,  before 
which,  nevertheless,  they  felt  themselves  impotent,  as 
before  the  triumph  of  a  fashion. 

But  then  came  the  voice,  clear  and  low  at  first,  utter- 
ing the  words  of  absolution  —  '^ Misereatur  vestri"  —  125 
and  more  fell  on  their  knees;  and  as  it  rose  higher  and 
yet  clearer,  the  erect  heads  became  fewer  and  fewer,  till  at 
the  words  ^^  Benedicat  vos  omnipotens  Deus"  it  rose  to  a 
masculine  cry,  as  if  protesting  its  power  to  bless  under 
the  clutch  of  a  demon  that  wanted  to  stifle  it;  it  rang  130 
like  a  trumpet  to  the  extremities  of  the  Piazza,  and 
under  it  every  head  was  bowed. 

After  the  utterance  of  that  blessing,  Savonarola  him- 
self fell  on  his  knees,  and  hid  his  face  in  temporary 
exhaustion.  Those  great  jets  of  emotion  were  a  neces- 135 
sary  part  of  his  life;  he  himself  had  said  to  the  people 
long  ago,  "Without  preaching  I  cannot  live."  But  it 
was  a  life  that  shattered  him. 

In  a  few  minutes  more,  some  had  risen  to  their  feet, 
but  a  large  number  remained  kneeling,  and   all   faces  140 
were  intently  watching  him.     He   had  taken  into  his 
hands  a  crystal  vessel  containing  the  consecrated  Host, 
and  was  about  to  address  the  people. 

"You  remember,  my  children,  three  days  ago  I  be- 
sought you,  when  I  should  hold  this  Sacrament  in  my  145 
hand  in  the  face  of  you  all,  to  pray  fervently  to  the 
Most  High  that  if  this  work  of  mine  does  not  come 
from  Him,  He  will  send  a  fire  and  consume  me,  that  I 
may  vanish  into  the  eternal  darkness  away  from  His 
light  which  I  have  hidden  with  my  falsity.  Again  I  150 
beseech  you  to  make  that  prayer,  and  to  make  it  now." 

It  was  a  breathless  moment ;  perhaps  no  man  really 
prayed,  if  some  in  a  spirit  of  devout  obedience  made 


ELIOT  585 

the  effort  to  pray.     Every  consciousness  was  chiefly  pos- 
sessed by  the  sense  that  Savonarola  was  praying,  in  a  155 
voice  not  loud,  but  distinctly  audible  in  the  wide  still- 
ness. 

"Lord,  if  I  have  not  wrought  in  sincerity  of  soul,  if 
my  word  cometh  not  from  Thee,  strike  me  in  this  mo- 
ment with  Thy  thunder,  and  let  the  fires  of  Thy  wrath  160 
enclose  me." 

He  ceased  to  speak,  and  stood  motionless  with  the 
consecrated  Mystery  in  his  hand,  with  eyes  uplifted,  and 
a  quivering  excitement  in  his  whole  aspect.  Every  one 
else  was  motionless  and  silent  too,  while  the  sunlight,  165 
which  for  the  last  quarter  of  an  hour  had  here  and  there 
been  piercing  the  grayness,  made  fitful  streaks  across  the 
convent  wall,  causing  some  awe-stricken  spectators  to 
start  timidly.  But  soon  there  was  a  wider  parting,  and 
with  a  gentle  quickness,  like  a  smile,  a  stream  of  bright-  170 
ness  poured  itself  on  the  crystal  vase,  and  then  spread 
itself  over  Savonarola's  face  with  mild  glorification. 

An  instantaneous  shout  rang  through  the  Piazza,  "  Be- 
hold the  answer ! " 

The  warm  radiance  thrilled  through  Savonarola's  frame,  175 
and  so  did  the  shout.     It  was  his  last  moment  of  un- 
troubled triumph,  and  in  its  rapturous  confidence  he 
felt   carried   to  a  grander  scene   yet   to  come,  before 
an  audience  that  would  represent  all  Christendom,   in 
whose  presence  he  should  again  be  sealed  as  the  mes- 180 
senger  of  the  supreme  righteousness,  and  feel  himself 
full  charged  with  Divine  strength.     It  was  but  a  moment 
that  expanded  itself  in  that  prevision.     While  the  shout 
was  still  ringing  in  his  ears,  he  turned  away  within  the 
church,  feeling  the  strain  too  great  for  him  to  bear  it  185 
longer. 


ARTHUR   HUGH   CLOUGH 

(1819-1861) 

THE   STREAM   OF   LIFE 

O  STREAM  descending  to  the  sea, 

Thy  mossy  banks  between, 
The  flowerets  blow,  the  grasses  grow, 

The  leafy  trees  are  green. 

In  garden  plots  the  children  play,  5 

The  fields  the  labourers  till. 
And  houses  stand  on  either  hand, 

And  thou  descendest  still. 

O  life  descending  into  death. 

Our  waking  eyes  behold,  10 

Parent  and  friend  thy  lapse  attend. 

Companions  young  and  old. 

Strong  purposes  our  mind  possess. 

Our  hearts  affections  fill, 
We  toil  and  earn,  we  seek  and  learn,  15 

And  thou  descendest  still. 

O  end  to  which  our  currents  tend, 

Inevitable  sea, 
To  which  we  flow,  what  do  we  know, 

What  shall  we  guess  of  thee  ?  20 

586 


CLOUGH  587 


A  roar  we  hear  upon  thy  shore, 
As  we  our  course  fulfil; 

Scarce  we  divine  a  sun  will  shine 
And  be  above  us  still. 


THE   BOTHIE   OF   TOBER-NA-VUOLICH 
The  Highland  Stream 

There  is  a  stream  (I  name  not  its  name,  lest  inquisitive 

tourist 
Hunt  it,  and  make  it  a  lion,  and  get  it  at  last  into  guide- 
books), 
Springing  far  off  from  a  loch  unexplored  in  the  folds  of 

great  mountains, 
Falling  two  miles  through  rowan  and   stunted   alder, 

enveloped 
Then  for  four  more  in  a  forest  of  pine,  where  broad  and    5 

ample 
Spreads,  to  convey  it,  the  glen  with  heathery  slopes  on 

both  sides : 
Broad   and  fair  the  stream,  with  occasional  falls  and 

narrows; 
But,  where  the  glen  of  its  course  approaches  the  vale  of 

the  river, 
Met  and  blocked  by  a  huge  interposing  mass  of  granite, 
Scarce  by  a  channel  deep-cut,  raging  up,  and  raging   10 

onward. 
Forces  its  flood  through  a  passage  so  narrow  a  lady  would 

step  it. 
There,  across  the  great  rocky  wharves,  a  wooden  bridge 

goes, 


588  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

Carrying  a  path  to  the  forest;   below,  three  hundred 
yards,  say, 

Lower  in  level  some  twenty-five  feet,  through  flats  of 
shingle, 

Stepping-stones  and  a  cart-track  cross  in  the  open  val-  15 
ley. 
But  in  the  interval  here  the  boiling  pent-up  water 

Frees  itself  by  a  final  descent,  attaining  a  basin, 

Ten  feet  wide  and  eighteen  long,  with  whiteness  and 
fury 

Occupied  partly,  but  mostly  pellucid,  pure,  a  mirror; 

Beautiful  there  for  the  colour  derived  from  green  rocks  20 
under; 

Beautiful,  most  of  all,  where  beads  of  foam  uprising 

Mingle  their  clouds  of  white  with  the  delicate  hue  of  the 
stillness. 

Cliff  over  cliff  for  its  sides,  with  rowan  and  pendent  birch 
boughs, 

Here  it  lies,  unthought  of  above  at  the  bridge  and  path- 
way, 

Still  more  enclosed  from  below  by  wood  and  rocky  pro-  25 
jection. 

You  are  shut  in,  left  alone  with  yourself  and  perfection 
of  water. 

Hid  on  all  sides,  left  alone  with  yourself  and  the  god- 
dess of  bathing. 
Here,  the  pride  of  the  plunger,  you  stride  the  fall  and 
clear  it; 

Here,  the  delight  of  the  bather,  you  roll  in  beaded  spark- 
lings. 

Here  into  pure  green  depth  drop  down  from  lofty  ledges.   30 


C LOUGH  589 

WHERE   LIES   THE   LAND? 

Where  lies  the  land  to  which  the  ship  would  go? 
Far,  far  ahead,  is  all  her  seamen  know. 
And  where  the  land  she  travels  from  ?     Away, 
Far,  far  behind,  is  all  that  they  can  say. 

On  sunny  noons  upon  the  deck's  smooth  face,  5 

Linked  arm  in  arm,  how  pleasant  here  to  pace; 
Or,  o'er  the  stern  reclining,  watch  below 
The  foaming  wake  far  widening  as  we  go. 

On  stormy  nights  when  wild  north-westers  rave, 
How  proud  a  thing  to  fight  with  wind  and  wave !        10 
The  dripping  sailor  on  the  reeling  mast 
Exults  to  bear,  and  scorns  to  wish  it  past. 

Where  lies  the  land  to  which  the  ship  would  go? 
Far,  far  ahead,  is  all  her  seamen  know. 
And  where  the  land  she  travels  from?     Away,  15 

Far,  far  behind,  is  all  that  they  can  say. 


SAY   NOT,   THE   STRUGGLE   NOUGHT  AVAILETH 

Say  not,  the  struggle  nought  availeth. 
The  labour  and  the  wounds  are  vain, 

The  enemy  faints  not,  nor  faileth. 
And  as  things  have  been  they  remain. 

If  hopes  were  dupes,  fears  may  be  liars; 

It  may  be,  in  yon  smoke  concealed. 
Your  comrades  chase  e'en  now  the  fliers. 

And,  but  for  you,  possess  the  field. 


590  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

For  while  the  tired  waves,  vainly  breaking, 

Seem  here  no  painful  inch  to  gain,  lo 

Far  back,  through  creeks  and  inlets  making, 
Come  silent,  flooding  in,  the  main, 

And  not  by  eastern  windows  only. 

When  daylight  comes,  comes  in  the  light. 

In  front,  the  sun  climbs  slow,  how  slowly,  15 

But  westward,  look,  the  land  is  bright. 


QUA  CURSUM   VENTUS 

As  ships,  becalmed  at  eve,  that  lay 
With  canvas  drooping,  side  by  side, 

Two  towers  of  sail  at  dawn  of  day 

Are  scarce  long  leagues  apart  descried; 

When  fell  the  night,  upsprung  the  breeze, 
And  all  the  darkling  hours  they  plied, 

Nor  dreamt  but  each  the  self-same  seas 
By  each  was  cleaving,  side  by  side : 

E'en  so  —  but  why  the  tale  reveal 

Of  those,  whom  year  by  year  unchanged, 

Brief  absence  joined  anew  to  feel. 
Astounded,  soul  from  soul  estranged? 

At  dead  of  night  their  sails  were  filled, 
And  onward  each  rejoicing  steered  — 

Ah,  neither  blame,  for  neither  willed. 
Or  wist,  what  first  with  dawn  appeared ! 


C LOUGH  591 

To  veer,  how  vain !     On,  onward  strain. 
Brave  barks !     In  light,  in  darkness  too, 

Through  winds  and  tides  one  compass  guides  — 
To  that,  and  your  own  selves,  be  true.  20 

But  O  blithe  breeze !  and  O  great  seas, 
Though  ne'er,  that  earliest  parting  past, 

On  your  wide  plain  they  join  again, 
Together  lead  them  home  at  last. 

One  port,  methought,  alike  they  sought,  25 

One  purpose  hold  where'er  they  fare,  — 

O  bounding  breeze,  O  rushing  seas ! 
At  last,  at  last,  unite  them  there ! 


WITH   WHOM   IS   NO   VARIABLENESS,   NEITHER 
SHADOW   OF   TURNING' 

It  fortifies  my  soul  to  know 
That,  though  I  perish.  Truth  is  so : 
That,  howsoe'er  I  stray  and  range, 
Whate'er  I  do.  Thou  dost  not  change. 
I  steadier  step  when  I  recall 
That,  if  I  slip,  Thou  dost  not  fall. 


'O  Oeo<?  yu^Ta  crov !  * 

Farewell,  my  Highland  lassie !  when  the  year  returns 

around, 

Be  it  Greece,  or  be  it  Norway,  where  my  vagrant  feet 

are  found, 

*  God  be  with  you. 


592  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

I  shall  call  to  mind  the  place,  I  shall  call  to  mind  the 

day, 
The  day  that's  gone  forever,  and  the  glen  that's  far  away; 
I  shall  mind  me,  be  it  Rhine  or  Rhone,  Italian  land  or    5 

France, 
Of  the  laughings  and  the  whispers,  of  the  pipings  and 

the  dance; 
I  shall  see  thy  soft  brown  eyes  dilate  to  wakening  woman 

thought. 
And  whiter  still  the  white  cheek  grow  to  which  the  blush 

was  brought; 
And  oh,  with  mind  commixing  I  thy  breath  of  life  shall 

feel, 
And  clasp  thy  shyly  passive  hands  in  joyous  Highland  10 

reel; 
I  shall  hear,  and  see,  and  feel,  and  in  sequence  sadly  true, 
Shall  repeat  the  bitter-sweet  of  the  lingering  last  adieu; 
I  shall  seem  as  now  to  leave  thee,  with  the  kiss  upon  the 

brow. 
And  the  fervent  benediction  of  —  'O  ©cos  /itcTa  o-ov! 

Ah  me,  my  Highland  lassie !  though  in  winter  drear  and  15 

long, 
Deep  arose  the  heavy  snows,  and  the  stormy  winds  were 

strong. 
Though  the  rain,  in  summer's  brightest,  it  were  raining 

every  day. 
With  worldly  comforts  few  and  far,  how  glad  were  I  to 

stay! 
I  fall  to  sleep  with  dreams  of  life  in  some  black  bothie 

spent, 
Coarse  poortith's  were  thou  changing  there  to  gold  of  20 

pure  content. 


CLOUGH  593 

With  barefoot  lads  and  lassies  round,  and  thee  the  cheery 

wife, 
In  the  braes  of  old  Lochaber  a  laborious  homely  life; 
But  I  wake, —  to  leave  thee,  smiling,  with  the  kiss  upon 

the  brow. 
And  the  peaceful  benediction  of  —  'O  ©eos  ftcra  o-oi)  I 


SONGS   IN   ABSENCE 

Green  fields  of  England!  wheresoe'er 
Across  this  watery  waste  we  fare, 
Your  image  at  our  hearts  we  bear. 
Green  fields  of  England,  everywhere. 

Sweet  eyes  in  England,  I  must  flee 
Past  where  the  waves'  last  confines  be, 
Ere  your  loved  smile  I  cease  to  see, 
Sweet  eyes  in  England,  dear  to  me. 

Dear  home  in  England,  safe  and  fast 
If  but  in  thee  my  lot  lie  cast, 
The  past  shall  seem  a  nothing  past 
To  thee,  dear  home,  if  won  at  last; 
Dear  home  in  England,  won  at  last. 


A  RIVER   POOL 

Sweet  streamlet  basin !  at  thy  side 
Weary  and  faint  within  me  cried 
My  longing  heart.  —  In  such  pure  deep 
How  sweet  it  wer^  to  sit  and  sleep; 

2Q 


594  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

To  feel  each  passage  from  without 
Close  up,  —  above  me  and  about, 
Those  circling  waters  crystal  clear. 
That  calm  impervious  atmosphere ! 
There  on  thy  pearly  pavement  pure, 
To  lean,  and  feel  myself  secure. 
Or  through  the  dim-lit  interspace 
Afar  at  whiles  upgazing  trace 
The  dimpling  bubbles  dance  around 
Upon  thy  smooth  exterior  face; 
Or  idly  list  the  dreamy  sound 
Of  ripples  lightly  flung,  above 
That  home,  of  peace,  if  not  of  love. 


COME,  POET,  COME 

Come,  Poet,  come! 
A  thousand  labourers  ply  their  task, 
And  what  it  tends  to  scarcely  ask. 
And  trembling  thinkers  on  the  brink 
Shiver,  and  know  not  how  to  think. 
To  tell  the  purport  of  their  pain. 
And  what  our  silly  joys  contain; 
In  lasting  lineaments  portray 
The  substance  of  the  shadowy  day; 
Our  real  and  inner  deeds  rehearse, 
And  make  our  meaning  clear  in  verse; 
Come,  Poet,  come !  for  but  in  vain 
We  do  the  work  or  feel  the  pain. 
And  gather  up  in  seeming  gain. 
Unless  before  the  end  thou  come 
To  take,  ere  they  be  lost,  their  sum. 


CLOUGH  595 

Come,  Poet,  come ! 
And  give  an  utterance  to  the  dumb, 
And  make  vain  babbles  silent,  come; 
A  thousand  dupes  point  here  and  there,  20 

Bewildered  by  the  show  and  glare; 
And  wise  men  half  have  learned  to  doubt 
Whether  we  are  not  best  without. 
Come,  Poet;  both  but  wait  to  see 
Their  error  proved  to  them  in  thee.  35 

Come,  Poet,  come! 
In  vain  I  seem  to  call.     And  yet 
Think  not  the  living  times  forget. 
Ages  of  heroes  fought  and  fell 
That  Homer  in  the  end  might  tell;  30 

O'er  grovelling  generations  past 
Upstood  the  Doric  fane  at  last; 
And  countless  hearts  on  countless  years 
Had  wasted  thoughts,  and  hopes,  and  fears, 
Rude  laughter  and  unmeaning  tears,  35 

Ere  England  Shakespeare  saw,  or  Rome 
The  pure  perfection  of  her  dome. 
Others,  I  doubt  not,  if  not  we. 
The  issue  of  our  toils  shall  see; 
Young  children  gather  as  their  own  40 

The  harvest  that  the  dead  had  sown, 
The  dead  forgotten  and  unknown. 


IN  THE   GREAT  METROPOLIS 

Each  for  himself  is  still  the  rule; 
We  learn  it  when  we  go  to  school  — 
The  devil  take  the  hindmost,  O! 


596  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

And  when  the  schoolboys  grow  to  men, 
In  life  they  learn  it  o'er  again  —  5 

The  devil  take  the  hindmost,  O ! 

For  in  the  church,  and  at  the  bar, 
On  'Change,  at  court,  where'er  they  are, 
The  devil  takes  the  hindmost,  O ! 

Husband  for  husband,  wife  for  wife,  10 

Are  careful  that  in  married  life 

The  devil  takes  the  hindmost,  O ! 

From  youth  to  age,  whate'er  the  game, 
The  unvarying  practice  is  the  same  — 

The  devil  takes  the  hindmost,  O !  15 

And  after  death,  we  do  not  know, 
But  scarce  can  doubt  where'er  we  go 
The  devil  takes  the  hindmost,  O ! 

Ti  rol  de  rol,  ti  rol  de  ro. 

The  devil  take  the  hindmost,  O !  20 


JOHN    RUSKIN 

(1819-    ) 

PRAETERITA 
The  Consecration 

Difficult  enough  for  you  to  imagine,  that  old  travel- 
lers' time,  when  Switzerland  was  yet  the  land  of  the 
Swiss,  and  the  Alps  had  never  been  trod  by  foot  of  man. 
Steam,  never  heard  of  yet,  but  for  short,  fair-weather 
crossing  at  sea  (were  there  paddle-packets  across  Atlan- 
tic? I  forget).  Anyway,  the  roads  by  land  were  safe; 
and  entered  once  into  this  mountain  Paradise,  we  wound 
on  through  its  balmy  glens,  past  cottage  after  cottage  on 
their  lawns,  still  glistening  in  the  dew. 

The  road  got  into  more  barren  heights  by  the  mid- 
day, the  hills  arduous;  once  or  twice  we  had  to  wait  for 
horses,  and  we  were  still  twenty  miles  from  Schaffhausen 
at  sunset;  it  was  past  midnight  when  we  reached  her 
closed  gates.  The  disturbed  porter  had  the  grace  to 
open  them  —  not  quite  wide  enough:  we  carried  away 
one  of  the  lamps  in  collision  with  the  slanting  bar  as 
we  drove  through  the  arch.  How  much  happier  the 
privilege  of  dreamily  entering  a  mediaeval  city,  though 
with  the  loss  of  a  lamp,  than  the  free  ingress  of  being 
jammed  between  a  dray  and  a  tram-car  at  a  railroad 
station ! 

It  is  strange  that  I  but  dimly  recollect  the  following 
597 


598  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

morning;  I  fancy  we  must  have  gone  to  some  sort  of 
church  or  other;  and  certainly,  part  of  the  day  went  in 
admiring  the  bow-windows  projecting  into  the  clean  25 
streets.  None  of  us  seemed  to  have  thought  the  Alps 
would  be  visible  without  profane  exertion  in  climbing 
hills.  We  dined  at  four,  as  usual,  and  the  evening 
being  entirely  fine,  went  to  walk,  all  of  us,  —  my  father 
and  mother  and  Mary  and  I.  30 

We  must  have  still  spent  some  time  in  town  —  seeing, 
for  it  was  drawing  toward  sunset  when  we  got  up  to 
some  sort  of  garden  promenade  —  west  of  the  town,  I 
believe;  and  high  above  the  Rhine,  so  as  to  command 
the  open  country  across  it  to  south  and  west.  At  which  35 
open  country  of  low  undulation,  far  into  blue,  —  gazing 
as  at  one  of  our  own  distances  from  Malvern  of  Worces- 
tershire, or  Dorking  of  Kent, — suddenly — behold  —  be- 
yond. 

There  was  no  thought  in  any  of  us  for  a  moment  of  40 
their  being  clouds.  They  were  as  clear  as  crystal,  sharp 
on  the  pure  horizon  sky,  and  already  tinged  with  rose  by 
the  sinking  sun.  Infinitely  beyond  all  that  we  had  ever 
thought  or  dreamed, —  the  seen  walls  of  lost  Eden  could 
not  have  been  more  beautiful  to  us;  not  more  awful,  45 
round  heaven,  the  walls  of  sacred  Death. 

It  is  not  possible  to  imagine,  in  any  time  of  the 
world,  a  more  blessed  entrance  into  life,  for  a  child  of 
such  a  temperament  as  mine.  True,  the  temperament 
belonged  to  the  age:  a  very  few  years, — within  the  50 
hundred, —  before  that,  no  child  could  have  been  born 
to  care  for  the  mountains,  or  for  the  men  that  lived 
among  them,  in  that  way.  Till  Rousseau's  time,  there 
had  been  no  "sentimental"  love  of  nature;  and  till 
Scott's,  no  such  apprehensive  love  of  "all  sorts  and  con-    55 


RUSK  IN  599 

ditions  of  men,"  not  in  the  soul  merely,  but  in  the  flesh. 
St.  Bernard  of  La  Fontaine,  looking  out  to  Mont  Blanc, 
with  his  child's  eyes,  sees  above  Mont  Blanc  the  Ma- 
donna; St.  Bernard  of  Talloires,  not  the  Lake  of  An- 
necy  but  the  dead  between  Martigny  and  Aosta.  But  60 
for  me,  the  Alps  and  their  people  were  alike  beautiful 
in  their  snow,  and  their  humanity;  and  I  wanted, 
neither  for  them  nor  myself,  sight  of  any  throne  in 
heaven  but  the  rocks,  or  of  any  spirits  in  heaven  but  the 
clouds.  65 

Thus,  in  perfect  health  of  life  and  fire  of  heart,  not 
wanting  to  be  anything  but  the  boy  I  was,  not  wanting 
to  have  anything  more  than  I  had;  knowing  of  sorrow 
only  just  so  much  as  to  make  life  serious  to  me,  not 
enough  to  slacken  in  the  least  its  sinews;  and  with  so  70 
much  of  science  mixed  with  feeling  as  to  make  the  sight 
of  the  Alps  not  only  the  revelation  of  the  beauty  of  the 
earth,  but  the  opening  of  the  first  page  of  its  volume, 
—  I  went  down  that  evening  from  the  garden-terrace  of 
Schaffhausen  with  my  destiny  fixed  in  all  of  it  that  was  75 
to  be  sacred  and  useful.  To  that  terrace,  and  the  shore 
of  the  Lake  of  Geneva,  my  heart  and  faith  return  to  this 
day,  in  every  impulse  that  is  yet  nobly  alive  in  them, 
and  every  thought  that  has  in  it  help  or  peace. 


MODERN   PAINTERS 

Real  Happiness 

The  great  mechanical  impulses  of  the  age,  of  which 
most  of  us  are  so  proud,  are  a  mere  passing  fever,  half 
speculative,  half  childish.     People  will  discover  at  last 


600  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

that  royal  roads  to  anything  can  no  more  be  laid  in  iron 
than  they  can  in  dust;  that  there  are,  in  fact,  no  royal    5 
roads  to  anywhere  worth  going  to;  that  if  there  were,  it 
would  that  instant  cease  to  be  worth  going  to,  I  mean  so 
far  as  the  things  to  be  obtained  are  in  any  way  estimable 
in  terms  oi  price.     For  there  are  two  classes  of  precious 
things  in  the  world :  those  that  God  gives  us  for  nothing  10 
—  sun,  air,  and  life  (both  mortal  life  and  immortal); 
and  the  secondarily  precious  things  which  He  gives  us 
for  a  price :  these  secondarily  precious  things,  worldly 
wine  and  milk,  can  only  be  bought  for  definite  money; 
they  never  can  be  cheapened.     No  cheating  nor  bargain-   15 
ing  will  ever  get  a  single  thing  out  of  nature's  "  establish- 
ment" at  half-price.      Do  we  want  to  be  strong?  —  we 
must  work.     To  be  hungry?  —  we  must  starve.     To  be 
happy?  —  we  must  be  kind.     To  be  wise?  —  we  must 
look  and  think.     No  changing  of  place  at  a  hundred  20 
miles  an  hour,  nor  making  of  stuffs  a  thousand  yards  a 
minute   will  make  us  one  whit  stronger,  happier,   or 
wiser.     There  was  always  more  in  the  world  than  men 
could  see,  walked  they  ever  so  solwly;  they  will  see  it 
no  better  for  going  fast.     And  they  will  at  last,  and  25 
soon,  too,  find  out  that  their  grand  inventions  for  con- 
quering (as  they  think)   space  and  time  do  in  reality 
conquer  nothing;  for  space  and  time  are,  in  their  own 
essence,  unconquerable,  and  besides  did  not  want  any 
sort  of  conquering;  they  wanted  using.     A  fool  always  30 
wants  to  shorten  space  and  time :  a  wise  man  wants  to 
lengthen  both.    A  fool  wants  to  kill  space  and  kill  time: 
a  wise  man,  first  to  gain  them,  then  to  animate  them. 
Your   railroad,  when   you   come    to   understand    it,   is 
only  a  device  for  making  the  world  smaller :  and  as  for  35 
being  able  to  talk  from  place  to  place,  that  is,  indeed. 


RUSK  IN  60 1 

well  and  convenient;  but  suppose  you  have,  originally, 
nothing  to  say.  We  shall  be  obliged  at  last  to  confess, 
what  we  should  long  ago  have  known,  that  the  really 
precious  things  are  thought  and  sight,  not  pace.  It  40 
does  a  bullet  no  good  to  go  fast;  and  a  man,  if  he  be 
truly  a  man,  no  harm  to  go  slow;  for  his  glory  is  not  at 
all  in  going,  but  in  being.   .  .  . 

And  I  am  Utopian  and  enthusiastic  enough  to  believe, 
that  the  time  will  come  when  the  world  will  discover  45 
this.  It  has  now  made  its  experiments  in  every  possible 
direction  but  the  right  one;  and  it  seems  that  it  must, 
at  last,  try  the  right  one,  in  a  mathematical  necessity. 
It  has  tried  fighting,  and  preaching,  and  fasting,  buying 
and  selling,  pomp  and  parsimony,  pride  and  humilia-  50 
tion, —  every  possible  manner  of  existence  in  which  it 
could  conjecture  there  was  any  happiness  or  dignity; 
and  all  the  while,  as  it  bought,  sold,  and  fought,  and 
fasted,  and  wearied  itself  with  policies,  and  ambitions, 
and  self-denials,  God  has  placed  its  real  happiness  in  55 
the  keeping  of  the  little  mosses  of  the  wayside,  and  of 
the  clouds  of  the  firmament.  Now  and  then  a  weary 
king,  or  a  tormented  slave,  found  out  where  the  true 
kingdoms  of  the  world  were,  and  possessed  himself,  in 
a  furrow  or  two  of  garden  ground,  of  a  truly  infinite  60 
dominion.  But  the  world  would  not  believe  their  re- 
port, and  went  on  trampling  down  the  mosses,  and  for- 
getting the  clouds,  and  seeking  happiness  in  its  own 
way,  until,  at  last,  blundering  and  late,  came  natural 
science;  and  in  natural  science  not  only  the  observation  65 
of  things,  but  the  finding  out  of  new  uses  for  them.  Of 
course  the  world,  having  a  choice  left  to  it,  went  wrong, 
as  usual,  and  thought  that  these  mere  material  uses  were 
to  be  the  sources  of  its  happiness.     It  got  the  clouds 


602  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

packed  into  iron  cylinders,  and  made  it  carry  its  wise  70 
self  at  their  own  cloud  pace.  It  got  weavable  fibres  out 
of  the  mosses,  and  made  clothes  for  itself,  cheap  and 
fine, —  here  was  happiness  at  last.  To  go  as  fast  as  the 
clouds,  and  manufacture  everything  out  of  anything,  — 
here  was  paradise,  indeed.  75 

And  now,  when,  in  a  little  while,  it  is  unparadised 
again,  if  there  were  any  other  mistake  that  the  world 
could  make,  it  would  of  course  make  it.  But  I  see  not 
that  there  is  any  other;  and,  standing  fairly  at  its  wits' 
ends,  having  found  that  going  fast,  when  it  is  used  to  80 
it,  is  no  more  paradisaical  than  going  slow;  and  that  all 
the  prints  and  cottons  in  Manchester  cannot  make  it 
comfortable  in  its  mind,  I  do  verily  believe  it  will 
come,  finally,  to  understand  that  God  paints  the  clouds 
and  shapes  the  moss-fibres,  that  men  may  be  happy  in  85 
seeing  Him  at  His  work,  and  that  in  resting  quietly 
beside  Him,  and  watching  His  working,  and  —  accord- 
ing to  the  power  He  has  communicated  to  ourselves, 
and  the  guidance  He  grants, —  in  carrying  out  His  pur- 
poses of  peace  and  charity  among  all  His  creatures,  are  90 
the  only  real  happiness  that  ever  were,  or  ever  will  be, 
possible  to  mankind. 


LECTURES   ON  ART 
The  Function  of  Art 

Let  me  now  finally,  and  with  all  distinctness  possible 
to  me,  state  to  you  the  main  business  of  all  Art;  —  its 
service  in  the  actual  uses  of  daily  life. 

You  are  surprised,  perhaps,  to  hear  me  call  this  its 
main  business.     That  is  indeed  so,  however.     The  giv- 


RUSK  IN  603 

ing  brightness  to  picture  is  much,  but  the  giving  bright- 
ness to  life  more.  And  remember,  were  it  as  patterns 
only,  you  cannot,  without  the  realities,  have  the  pict- 
ures. You  cannot  have  a  landscape  by  Turner,  without 
a  country  for  him  to  paint;  you  cannot  have  a  portrait  10 
by  Titian,  without  a  man  to  be  pourtrayed.  I  need  not 
prove  that  to  you,  I  suppose,  in  these  short  terms;  but 
in  the  outcome  I  can  get  no  soul  to  believe  that  the 
beginning  of  art  is  in  getting  our  country  clean  and  our 
people  beautiful.  I  have  been  ten  years  trying  to  get  15 
this  very  plain  certainty  —  I  do  not  say  believed  —  but 
even  thought  of,  as  anything  but  a  monstrous  proposi- 
tion.   To  get  your  country  clean,  and  your  people  lovely; 

—  I  assure  you  that  is  a  necessary  work  of  art  to  begin 
with !     There  has  indeed  been  art  in  countries  where  20 
people  lived  in  dirt  to  serve  God,  but  never  in  countries 
where  they  lived  in  dirt  to  serve  the  devil.     There  has 
indeed  been  art  where  the  people  were  not  at  all  lovely, 

—  where  even  their  lips  were  thick  —  and  their  skins 
black,  because  the  sun  had  looked  upon  them ;  but  never  25 
in  a  country  where  the  people  were  pale  with  miserable 
toil  and  deadly  shade,  and  where  the  lips  of  youth,  in- 
stead of  being  full  with  blood,  were  pinched  by  famine, 

or  warped  with  poison.  And  now,  therefore,  note  this 
well,  the  gist  of  all  these  long  prefatory  talks.  I  said  30 
that  the  two  great  moral  instincts  were  those  of  Order 
and  Kindness.  Now,  all  the  arts  are  founded  on  agri- 
culture by  the  hand,  and  on  the  graces,  and  kindness  of 
feeding,  and  dressing,  and  lodging  your  people.  Greek 
ar  begins  in  the  gardens  of  Alcinous  —  perfect  order,  35 
leeks  in  beds,  and  fountains  in  pipes.  And  Christian 
art,  as  it  arose  out  of  chivalry,  was  only  possible  so  far 
as  chivalry  compelled  both  kings  and  knights  to  care  for 


604  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

the  right  personal  training  of  their  people;  it  perished 
utterly  when  those  kings  and  knights  became  SrjfioftopoL,  40 
devourers  of  the  people.  And  it  will  become  possible 
again  only,  when,  literally,  the  sword  is  beaten  into  the 
ploughshare,  when  your  St.  George  of  England  shall  jus- 
tify his  name,  and  Christian  art  shall  be  known,  as  its 
Master  was,  in  breaking  of  bread.  ...  45 

Now,  I  have  given  you  my  message,  containing,  as  I 
know,  offence  enough,  and  itself,  it  may  seem  to  many, 
unnecessary  enough.     But  just  in  proportion  to  its  ap- 
parent non-necessity,  and  to  its  certain  offence,  was  its 
real  need,  and  my  real  duty  to  speak  it.  .  .  .    And  there-  50 
fore  these  are  the  things  that  I  have  first  and  last  to  tell 
you  in  this  place :  —  that  the  fine  arts  are  not  to  be  learned 
by  Locomotion,  but  by  making  the  homes  we  live  in 
lovely  and  by  staying  in  them;  —  that  the  fine  arts  are 
not  to  be  learned  by  Competition,  but  by  doing  our  quiet  55 
best  in  our  own  way;  —  that  the  fine  arts  are  not  to  be 
learned  by  Exhibition,  but  by  doing  what  is  right  and 
making  what  is  honest,  whether  it  be  exhibited  or  not; 
—  and,  for  the  sum  of  all,  that  men  must  paint  and  build 
neither  for  pride  nor  for  money,  but  for  love;  for  love  of  60 
their  art,  for  love  of  their  neighbour,  and  whatever  better 
love  may  be  than  these,  founded  on  these.  .  .  .     Begin 
with  wooden  floors;  the  tessellated  ones  will  take  care 
of  themselves;  begin  with  thatching  roofs,  and  you  shall 
end  by  splendidly  vaulting  them;  begin  by  taking  care  65 
that  no  old  eyes  fail  over  their  Bibles,  nor  young  ones 
over  their  needles,  for  want  of  rushlight,  and  then  you 
may  have  whatever  true  gbod  is  to  be  got  out  of  col- 
oured glass  or  wax  candles.     And  in  thus  putting  the 
arts  to  universal  use,  you  will  find  also  their  universal  70 ' 
inspiration,  their  universal  benediction. 


RUSK  IN  605 

STONES   OF  VENICE 

Knowledge  and  Wisdom 

Yet,  observe,  I  do  not  mean  to  speak  of  the  body  and 
soul  as  separable.  The  man  is  made  up  of  both :  they 
are  to  be  raised  and  glorified  together,  and  all  art  is  an 
expression  of  one,  by  and  through  the  other.  All  that 
I  would  insist  upon,  is,  the  necessity  of  the  whole  man  5 
being  in  his  work;  the  body  fuusthe  in  it.  Hands  and 
habits  must  be  in  it,  whether  we  will  or  not;  but  the 
nobler  part  of  the  man  may  often  not  be  in  it.  And 
that  nobler  part  acts  principally  in  love,  reverence,  and 
admiration,  together  with  those  conditions  of  thought  10 
which  arise  out  of  them.  For  we  usually  fall  into  much 
error  by  considering  the  intellectual  powers  as  having 
dignity  in  themselves,  and  separable  from  the  heart; 
whereas  the  truth  is,  that  the  intellect  becomes  noble 
and  ignoble  according  to  the  food  we  give  it,  and  the  15 
kind  of  subjects  with  which  it  is  conversant.  It  is  not 
the  reasoning  power  which,  of  itself,  is  noble,  but  the 
reasoning  power  occupied  with  its  proper  objects.  Half 
of  the  mistakes  of  metaphysicians  have  arisen  from  their 
not  observing  this;  namely,  that  the  intellect,  going  20 
through  the  same  process,  is  yet  mean  or  noble  accord- 
ing to  the  matter  it  deals  with,  and  wastes  itself  away  in 
mere  rotary  motion,  if  it  be  set  to  grind  straws  and  dust. 
If  we  reason  only  respecting  words,  or  lines,  or  any  tri- 
fling and  finite  things,  the  reason  becomes  a  contempt-  25 
ible  faculty;  but  reason  employed  on  holy  and  infinite 
things,  becomes  herself  holy  and  infinite.  .  .  .  For  it 
must  be  felt  at  once  that  the  increase  of  knowledge, 
merely  as  such,  does  not  make  the  soul  larger  or  smaller; 


6o6  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

that,  in  the  sight  of  God,  all  the  knowledge  man  can  30 
gain  is  as  nothing,  but  that  the  soul,  ...  be  it  igno- 
rant or  be  it  wise,  is  all  in  all,  and  in  the  activity, 
strength,  health,  and  well-being  of  this  soul,  lies  the 
main  difference,  in  His  sight,  between  one  man  and  an- 
other. And  that  which  is  all  in  all  in  God's  estimate  is  35 
also,  be  assured,  all  in  all  in  man's  labour,  and  to  have 
the  heart  open,  and  the  eyes  clear,  and  the  emotions 
and  thoughts  warm  and  quick,  and  not  the  knowing  of 
this  or  the  other  fact,  is  the  state  needed  for  all  mighty 
doing  in  this  world.  And  therefore,  finally,  for  this  the  40 
weightiest  of  all  reasons,  let  us  take  no  pride  in  our 
knowledge.  We  may,  in  a  certain  sense,  be  proud  of 
being  immortal;  we  may  be  proud  of  being  God's  chil- 
dren; we  may  be  proud  of  loving,  thinking,  seeing,  and 
of  all  that  we  are  by  no  human  teaching:  but  not  of  45 
what  we  have  been  taught  by  rote;  not  of  the  ballast 
and  freight  of  the  ship  of  the  spirit,  but  only  of  its 
pilotage,  without  which  all  the  freight  will  only  sink  it 
faster,  and  strew  the  sea  more  richly  with  its  ruin. 
There  is  not  at  this  moment  a  youth  of  twenty,  having  50 
received  what  we  moderns  ridiculously  call  education, 
but  he  knows  more  of  everything,  except  the  soul,  than 
Plato  or  St.  Paul  did;  but  he  is  not  for  that  reason  a 
greater  man,  or  fitter  for  his  work,  or  more  fit  to  be 
heard  by  others,  than  Plato  or  St.  Paul.  55 


MATTHEW  ARNOLD 

(1822-1888) 

EMPEDOCLES   ON   ETNA 

Callicles'  Song 

Through  the  black,  rushing  smoke-bursts 
Thick  breaks  the  red  iiame; 
All  Etna  heaves  fiercely 
Her  forest-clothed  frame. 

Not  here,  O  Apollo !  5 

Are  haunts  meet  for  thee. 

But,  where  Helicon  breaks  down 

In  cliff  to  the  sea. 

Where  the  moon-silver'd  inlets 

Send  far  their  light  voice  ic 

Up  the  still  vale  of  Thisbe, 

O  speed,  and  rejoice ! 

On  the  sward  at  the  cliff-top 

Lie  strewn  the  white  flocks. 

On  the  cliff-side  the  pigeons  15 

Roost  deep  in  the  rocks. 

In  the  moonlight  the  shepherds, 
Soft  lull'd  by  the  rills. 
Lie  wrapt  in  their  blankets 
Asleep  on  the  hills.  to 

607 


6o8  FROM   CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

—  What  forms  are  these  coming 
So  white  through  the  gloom? 
What  garments  out-glistening 
The  gold-flower'd  broom? 

What  sweet-breathing  presence  25 

Out-perfumes  the  thyme? 

What  voices  enrapture 

The  night's  balmy  prime?  — 

'Tis  Apollo  comes  leading 

His  choir,  the  Nine.  30 

—  The  leader  is  fairest. 
But  all  are  divine. 

They  are  lost  in  the  hollows ! 

They  stream  up  again ! 

What  seeks  on  this  mountain  35 

The  glorified  train?  — 

They  bathe  on  this  mountain, 

In  the  spring  by  their  road; 

Then  on  to  Olympus, 

Their  endless  abode.  40 

—  Whose  praise  do  they  mention? 
Of  what  is  it  told?  — 

What  will  be  for  ever; 
What  was  from  of  old. 

First  hymn  they  the  Father  45 

Of  all  things;  and  then, 
The  rest  of  immortals, 
The  action  of  men. 


ARNOLD  609 

The  day  in  his  hotness, 

The  strife  with  the  palm;  50 

The  night  in  her  silence, 

The  stars  in  their  calm. 


DOVER  BEACH 

The  sea  is  calm  to-night. 

The  tide  is  full,  the  moon  lies  fair 

Upon  the  straits;  — on  the  French  coast  the  light 

Gleams  and  is  gone;  the  cliffs  of  England  stand. 

Glimmering  and  vast,  out  in  the  tranquil  bay.  5 

Come  to  the  window,  sweet  is  the  night-air ! 

Only,  from  the  long  line  of  spray 

Where  the  sea  meets  the  moon-blanch'd  land, 

Listen !  you  hear  the  grating  roar 

Of  pebbles  which  the  waves  draw  back,  and  fling,      10 

At  their  return,  up  the  high  strand, 

Begin,  and  cease,  and  then  again  begin. 

With  tremulous  cadence  slow,  and  bring 

The  eternal  note  of  sadness  in. 

Sophocles  long  ago  15 

Heard  it  on  the  Aegean,  and  it  brought 

Into  his  mind  the  turbid  ebb  and  flow 

Of  human  misery;  we 

Find  also  in  the  sound  a  thought. 

Hearing  it  by  this  distant  northern  sea.  20 

The  Sea  of  Faith 

Was  once,  too,  at  the  full,  and  round  earth's  shore 

Lay  like  the  folds  of  a  bright  girdle  furl'd ! 

But  now  I  only  hear 


6lO  FROM   CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

Its  melancholy,  long,  withdrawing  roar,  25 

Retreating,  to  the  breath 

Of  the  night-wind,  down  the  vast  edges  drear 

And  naked  shingles  of  the  world. 

Ah,  love,  let  us  be  true 

To  one  another !  for  the  world,  which  seems  j-o 

To  lie  before  us  like  a  land  of  dreams, 

So  various,  so  beautiful,  so  new. 

Hath  really  neither  joy,  nor  love,  nor  light. 

Nor  certitude,  nor  peace,  nor  help  for  pain; 

And  we  are  here  as  on  a  darkling  plain  35 

Swept  with  confused  alarms  of  struggle  and  flight, 

Where  ignorant  armies  clash  by  night. 


MEMORIAL  VERSES 

Goethe  in  Weimar  sleeps,  and  Greece, 
Long  since,  saw  Byron's  struggle  cease. 
But  one  such  death  remain' d  to  come; 
The  last  poetic  voice  is  dumb  — 
We  stand  to-day  by  Wordsworth's  tomb. 

When  Byron's  eyes  were  shut  in  death, 
We  bow'd  our  head  and  held  our  breath. 
He  taught  us  little;  but  our  soul 
YidAfelt  him  like  the  thunder's  roll. 
With  shivering  heart  the  strife  we  saw 
Of  passion  with  eternal  law; 
And  yet  with  reverential  awe 
We  watch'd  the  fount  of  fiery  life 
Which  served  for  that  Titanic  strife. 


ARNOLD  6ll 

When  Goethe's  death  was  told,  we  said :  15 

Sunk,  then,  is  Europe's  sagest  head. 

Physician  of  the  iron  age, 

Goethe  has  done  his  pilgrimage. 

He  took  the  suffering  human  race. 

He  read  each  wound,  each  weakness  clear;  20 

And  struck  his  finger  on  the  place, 

And  said :  Thou  ailesi  here  and  here  I 

He  look'd  on  Europe's  dying  hour 

Of  fitful  dream  and  feverish  power; 

His  eye  plunged  down  the  weltering  strife,  25 

The  turmoil  of  expiring  life  — 

He  said :  The  end  is  everywhere, 

Art  still  has  truth,  take  refuge  there  ! 

And  he  was  happy,  if  to  know 

Causes  of  things,  and  far  below  30 

His  feet  to  see  the  lurid  flow 

Of  terror,  and  insane  distress, 

And  headlong  fate,  be  happiness. 

And  Wordsworth!  —  Ah,  pale  ghosts,  rejoice! 

For  never  has  such  soothing  voice  35 

Been  to  your  shadowy  world  convey' d. 

Since  erst,  at  morn,  some  wandering  shade 

Heard  the  clear  song  of  Orpheus  come 

Through  Hades,  and  the  mournful  gloom. 

Wordsworth  has  gone  from  us  —  and  ye,  40 

Ah,  may  ye  feel  his  voice  as  we  ! 

He  too  upon  a  wintry  clime 

Had  fallen  —  on  this  iron  time 

Of  doubts,  disputes,  distractions,  fears. 

He  found  us  when  the  age  had  bound  45 

Our  souls  in  its  benumbing  round; 


6l2  FROM  CHAUCER   TO  ARNOLD 

He  spoke,  and  loosed  our  heart  in  tears. 

He  laid  us  as  we  lay  at  birth 

On  the  cool  flowery  lap  of  earth, 

Smiles  broke  from  us  and  we  had  ease;  50 

The  hills  were  round  us,  and  the  breeze 

Went  o'er  the  sun-lit  fields  again; 

Our  foreheads  felt  the  wind  and  rain. 

Our  youth  return'd;  for  there  was  shed 

On  spirits  that  had  long  been  dead,  55 

Spirits  dried  up  and  closely  furl'd, 

The  freshness  of  the  early  world. 

Ah !  since  dark  days  still  bring  to  light 

Man's  prudence  and  man's  fiery  might, 

Time  may  restore  us  in  his  course  60 

Goethe's  sage  mind  and  Byron's  force; 

But  where  will  Europe's  latter  hour 

Again  find  Wordsworth's  healing  power? 

Others  will  teach  us  how  to  dare 

And  against  fear  our  breast  to  steel ;  65 

Others  will  strengthen  us  to  bear  — 

But  who,  ah!  who,  will  make  us  feel? 

The  cloud  of  mortal  destiny, 

Others  will  front  it  fearlessly  — 

But  who,  like  him,  will  put  it  by?  70 

Keep  fresh  the  grass  upon  his  grave, 
O  Rotha,  with  thy  living  wave ! 
Sing  him  thy  best!  for  few  or  none 
Hears  thy  voice  right,  now  he  is  gone. 


ARNOLD  613 

RUGBY  CHAPEL 

Servants  of  God 

Then,  in  such  hour  of  need 

Of  your  fainting,  dispirited  race, 

Ye,  like  angels,  appear. 

Radiant  with  ardour  divine ! 

Beacons  of  hope,  ye  appear  \  5 

Languor  is  not  in  your  heart, 

Weakness  is  not  in  your  word. 

Weariness  not  on  your  brow. 

Ye  alight  in  our  van !  at  your  voice, 

Panic,  despair,  flee  away.  10 

Ye  move  through  the  ranks,  recall 

The  stragglers,  refresh  the  outworn, 

Praise,  re-inspire  the  brave ! 

Order,  courage,  return. 

Eyes  rekindling,  and  prayers,  15 

Follow  your  steps  as  ye  go. 

Ye  fill  up  the  gaps  in  our  files. 

Strengthen  the  wavering  line, 

Stablish,  continue  our  march. 

On,  to  the  bound  of  the  waste,  ao 

On,  to  the  City  of  God. 


SHAKESPEARE 

Others  abide  our  question.     Thou  art  free. 

We  ask  and  ask  —  Thou  smilest  and  art  still, 
Out-topping  knowledge.     For  the  loftiest  hill. 
Who  to  the  stars  uncrowns  his  majesty, 


6l4  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

Planting  his  steadfast  footsteps  in  the  sea,  5 

Making  the  heaven  of  heavens  his  dwelling-place, 
Spares  but  the  cloudy  border  of  his  base 
To  the  foil'd  searching  of  mortality; 

And  thou,  who  didst  the  stars  and  sunbeams  know, 
Self-school'd,  self-scann'd,  self-honour'd,  self-secure,    10 
Didst  tread  on  earth  unguess'd  at.  — Better  so! 

All  pains  the  immortal  spirit  must  endure, 

All  weakness  which  impairs,  all  griefs  which  bow. 

Find  their  sole  speech  in  that  victorious  brow. 


WRITTEN   IN   EMERSON'S   ESSAYS 

*0  MONSTROUS,  dead,  unprofitable  world, 
That  thou  canst  hear  and  hearing  hold  thy  way! 
A  voice  oracular  hath  peal'd  to-day. 
To-day  a  hero's  banner  is  unfurl'd; 

'Hast  thou  no  lip  for  welcome?' — So  I  said. 
Man  after  man,  the  world  smiled  and  pass'd  by; 
A  smile  of  wistful  incredulity 
As  though  we  spoke  of  life  unto  the  dead  — 

Scornful,  and  strange,  and  sorrowful,  and  full 
Of  bitter  knowledge.     Yet  the  will  is  free; 
Strong  is  the  soul,  and  wise,  and  beautiful; 

The  seeds  of  godlike  power  are  in  us  still; 
Gods  are  we,  bards,  saints,  heroes,  if  we  will!  — 
Dumb  judges,  answer,  truth  or  mockery? 


ARNOLD  615 


EAST   LONDON 

'TwAS  August,  and  the  fierce  sun  overhead 
Smote  on  the  squalid  streets  of  Bethnal  Green, 
And  the  pale  weaver,  through  his  windows  seen 
In  Spitalfields,  look'd  thrice  dispirited. 

I  met  a  preacher  there  I  knew,  and  said : 

'111  and  o'erwork'd,  how  fare  you  in  this  scene?'  — 

'Bravely! '  said  he;  'for  I  of  late  have  been 

Much  cheer'd  with  thoughts  of  Christ,  the  living  bread.'' 

O  human  soul !  as  long  as  thou  canst  so 
Set  up  a  mark  of  everlasting  light, 
Above  the  howling  sense's  ebb  and  flow, 

To  cheer  thee,  and  so  right  thee  if  thou  roam  — . 
Not  with  lost  toil  thou  labourest  through  the  night! 
Thou  raak'st  the  heaven  thou  hop'st  indeed  thy  home. 


CALAIS   SANDS 

A  THOUSAND  knights  have  reined  their  steeds 
To  watch  this  line  of  sand-hills  run, 
Along  the  never  silent  strait, 
To  Calais  glittering  in  the  sun. 

To  look  toward  Ardres'  Golden  Field, 
Across  this  wide  aerial  plain. 
Which  glows  as  if  the  Middle  Age 
Were  gorgeous  upon  earth  again. 


6l6  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

Oh,  that  to  share  this  famous  scene, 

I  saw,  upon  the  open  sand,  lo 

Thy  lovely  presence  at  my  side, 

Thy  shawl,  thy  look,  thy  smile,  thy  hand ! 

How  exquisite  thy  voice  would  come. 

My  darling,  on  this  lonely  air ! 

How  sweetly  would  the  fresh  sea-breeze  15 

Shake  loose  some  band  of  soft  brown  hair ! 

Yet  now  my  glance  but  once  hath  roved 

O'er  Calais  and  its  famous  plain; 

To  England's  cliffs  my  gaze  is  tum'd, 

O'er  the  blue  strait  mine  eyes  I  strain.  20 

Thou  comest!     Yes!  the  vessel's  cloud 
Hangs  dark  upon  the  rolling  sea. 
Oh,  that  yon  sea-bird's  wings  were  mine. 
To  win  one  instant's  glimpse  of  thee ! 

I  must  not  spring  to  grasp  thy  hand,  25 

To  woo  thy  smile,  to  seek  thine  eye; 
But  I  may  stand  far  off,  and  gaze. 
And  watch  thee  pass  unconscious  by, 

And  spell  thy  looks,  and  guess  thy  thoughts, 
Mixtwith  the  idlers  on  the  pier —  30 

Ah,  might  I  always  rest  unseen. 
So  I  might  have  thee  always  near! 

To-morrow  hurry  through  the  fields 

Of  Flanders  to  the  storied  Rome ! 

To-night  those  soft-fringed  eyes  shall  close  35 

Beneath  one  roof,  my  queen !  with  mine. 


ARNOLD  617 

THE   STUDY   OF   POETRY 
Poetry  a  Criticism  of  Life 

We  should  conceive  of  poetry  worthily,  and  more 
highly  than  it  has  been  the  custom  to  conceive  of  it. 
We  should  conceive  of  it  as  capable  of  higher  uses,  and 
called  to  higher  destinies,  than  those  which  in  general 
men  have  assigned  to  it  hitherto.  More  and  more  man-  5 
kind  will  discover  that  we  have  to  turn  to  poetry  to 
interpret  life  for  us,  to  console  us,  to  sustain  us.  With- 
out poetry,  our  science  will  appear  incomplete;  and 
most  of  what  now  passes  with  us  for  religion  and  phi- 
losophy will  be  replaced  by  poetry.  Science,  I  say,  will  10 
appear  incomplete  without  it.  For  finely  and  truly  does 
Wordsworth  call  poetry  'the  impassioned  expression 
which  is  in  the  countenance  of  all  science ' ;  and  what 
is  a  countenance  without  its  expression?  Again,  Words- 
worth finely  and  truly  calls  poetry  'the  breath  and  finer  15 
spirit  of  all  knowledge '  :  our  religion,  parading  evi- 
dences such  as  those  on  which  the  popular  mind  relies 
now;  our  philosophy,  pluming  itself  on  its  reasonings 
about  causation  and  finite  and  infinite  being;  what  are 
they  but  the  shadows  and  dreams  and  false  shows  of  20 
knowledge  ?  The  day  will  come  when  we  shall  wonder 
at  ourselves  for  having  trusted  to  them,  for  having  taken 
them  seriously;  and  the  more  we  perceive  their  hollow- 
ness,  the  more  we  shall  prize  'the  breath  and  finer  spirit 
of  knowledge  '  offered  to  us  by  poetry.  25 

But  if  we  conceive  thus  highly  of  the  destinies  of 
poetry,  we  must  also  set  our  standard  for  poetry  high, 
since  poetry,  to  be  capable  of  fulfilling  such  high  desti- 
nies, must  be  poetry  of  a  high  order  of  excellence.     We 


6l8  FROM   CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

must  accustom  ourselves  to  a  high  standard  and  to  a  30 
strict  judgment.      Sainte-Beuve  relates  that  Napoleon 
one  day  said,  when  somebody  was   spoken   of   in  his 
presence  as  a  charlatan:    'Charlatan  as  much  as  you 
please;  but  where  is  there  not  charlatanism?'     'Yes,' 
answers  Sainte-Beuve,  'in  politics,  in  the  art  of  govern-  35 
ing  mankind,  that  is  perhaps  true.     But  in  the  order  of 
thought,  in  art,  the  glory,   the  eternal  honour  is  that 
charlatanism  shall  find  no  entrance;  herein  lies  the  in- 
violableness  of  that  noble  portion  of  man's  being.'     It 
is  admirably  said,  and  let  us  hold  fast  to  it.     In  poetry,   40 
which  is  thought  and  art  in  one,  it  is  the  glory,  the  eter- 
nal honour,  that  charlatanism  shall  find  no  entrance;  that 
this  noble  sphere  be  kept  inviolate  and  inviolable.    Char- 
latanism is  for  confusing  or  obliterating  the  distinctions 
between  excellent  and  inferior,  sound  and  unsound  or  45 
only  half-sound,  true  and  untrue  or  only  half-true.      It 
is  charlatanism,  conscious  or  unconscious,  whenever  we 
confuse  or  obliterate  these.      And  in  poetry,  more  than 
anywhere  else,  it  is  unpermissible  to  confuse  or  obliter- 
ate them.     For  in  poetry  the  distinction  between  excel-   50 
lent  and  inferior,  sound  and  unsound  or  only  half-sound, 
true  and  untrue  or  only  half-true,  is  of  paramount  im- 
portance.   It  is  of  paramount  importance  because  of  the 
high  destinies  of  poetry.      In  poetry,  as  a  criticism  of 
life  under  the  conditions  fixed  for  such  a  criticism  by  55 
the  laws  of  poetic  truth  and  poetic  beauty,  the  spirit  of 
our  race  will  find,  we  have  said,  as  time  goes  on  and  as 
other  helps  fail,  its  consolation  and  stay.     But  the  con- 
solation and  stay  will  be  of  power  in  proportion  to  the 
power  of  the  criticism  of  life.     And  the  criticism  of  life  60 
will  be  of  power  in  proportion  as  the  poetry  conveying 
it  is  excellent  rather  than  inferior,  sound  rather  than 


ARNOLD  619 

unsound  or  half-sound,  true  rather  than  untrue  or  half- 
true. 

The  best  poetry  is  what  we  want;  the  best  poetry  will  65 
be  found  to  have  a  power  of  forming,  sustaining,  and 
delighting  us,  as  nothing  else  can.     A  clearer,  deeper 
sense  of  the  best  in  poetry,  and  of  the  strength  and  joy 
to  be  drawn  from  it,  is  the  most  precious  benefit  which 
we  can  gather  from  a  poetical  collection  such  as  the  70 
present.     And  yet  in  the  very  nature  and  conduct  of 
such  a  collection  there  is  inevitably  something  which 
tends  to  obscure  in  us  the  consciousness  of  what  our 
benefit  should  be,  and  to  distract  us  from  the  pursuit  of 
it.    We  should  therefore  steadily  set  it  before  our  minds  75 
at  the  outset,  and  should  compel  ourselves  to  revert  con- 
stantly to  the  thought  of  it  as  we  proceed. 

Yes;  constantly,  in  reading  poetry,  a  sense  for  the 
best,  the  really  excellent,  and  of  the  strength  and  joy 
to  be  drawn  from  it,  should  be  present  in  our  minds  and  80 
should  govern  our  estimate  of  what  we  read.  But  this 
real  estimate,  the  only  true  one,  is  liable  to  be  super- 
seded, if  we  are  not  watchful,  by  two  other  kinds  of  esti- 
mate, the  historic  estimate  and  the  personal  estimate, 
both  of  which  are  fallacious.  A  poet  or  a  poem  may  85 
count  to  us  historically,  they  may  count  to  us  on  grounds 
personal  to  ourselves,  and  they  may  count  to  us  really. 
They  may  count  to  us  historically.  The  course  of  devel- 
opment of  a  nation's  language,  thought,  and  poetry,  is 
profoundly  interesting;  and  by  regarding  a  poet's  work  90 
as  a  stage  in  this  course  of  development  we  may  easily 
bring  ourselves  to  make  it  of  more  importance  as  poetry 
than  in  itself  it  really  is,  we  may  come  to  use  a  language 
of  quite  exaggerated  praise  in  criticising  it;  in  short,  to 
over-rate  it.     So  arises  in  our  poetic  judgments  the  fal-  95 


620  FROM  CHAUCER    TO  ARNOLD 

lacy  caused  by  the  estimate  which  we  may  call  historic. 
Then,  again,  a  poet  or  a  poem  may  count  to  us  on 
grounds  personal  to  ourselves.  Our  personal  affinities, 
likings,  and  circumstances,  have  great  power  to  sway  our 
estimate  of  this  or  that  poet's  work,  and  to  make  us  at-  loo 
tach  more  importance  to  it  as  poetry  than  in  itself  it 
really  possesses,  because  to  us  it  is,  or  has  been,  of  high 
importance.  Here  also  we  over-rate  the  object  of  our  in- 
terest, and  apply  to  it  a  language  of  praise  which  is  quite 
exaggerated.  And  thus  we  get  the  source  of  a  second  105 
fallacy  in  our  poetic  judgments,  — the  fallacy  caused  by 
an  estimate  which  we  may  call  personal. 

At  any  rate  the  end  to  which  the  method  and  the 
estimate  are  designed   to   lead,  and   from   leading   to 
which,  if  they  do  lead  to  it,  they  get  their  whole  value,  no 
—  the  benefit  of  being  able  clearly  to  feel  and  deeply  to 
enjoy  the  best,  the  truly  classic,  in  poetry, —  is  an  end, 
let  me  say  it  once  more  at  parting,  of  supreme  impor- 
tance.    We  are  often  told  that  an  era  is  opening  in 
which  we  are  to  see  multitudes  of  a  common  sort  of  115 
readers,  and  masses  of  a  common  sort  of  literature;  that 
such  readers  do  not  want  and  could  not  relish  anything 
better  than  such  literature,   and  that  to  provide  it  is 
becoming  a  vast  and  profitable  industry.     Even  if  good 
literature  entirely  lost  currency  with  the  world,  it  would  120 
still  be  abundantly  worth  while  to  continue  to  enjoy  it 
by  oneself.     But  it  never  will  lose  currency  with  the 
world,  in  spite  of  momentary  appearances;  it  never  will 
lose  supremacy.     Currency  and  supremacy  are  insured 
to  it,  not  indeed  by  the  world's  deliberate  and  conscious  125 
choice,  but  by  something  far  deeper, —  by  the  instinct  of 
self-preservation  in  humanity. 


NOTES 

GEOFFREY  CHAUCER 

The  England  before  Chaucer  was  a  complex  of  elements,  —  Celtic, 
Roman,  Saxon,  and  Norman,  —  which,  under  the  influences  within 
and  without,  gradually  became  united,  until  there  developed  a  dis- 
tinct national  polity  and  national  religion.  The  former  was  evolved 
from  within  ;  the  latter  came  from  without.  The  song  of  war  and  con- 
quest, full  of  the  strain  of  the  sea,  which  the  Saxons  brought  with  them 
from  the  Continent,  under  the  milder  influences  of  Christianity  at 
Whitby  became  a  song  of  religious  struggle  and  devotion  with  Caedman 
and  Cynewulf.  When  by  the  inroads  of  the  Danes  literature  was 
driven  from  Northumbria  it  found  a  home  at  Winchester,  the  court  of 
Alfred,  and  English  prose  was  born  in  the  Saxon  Chronicle.  Like  the 
verse  of  the  North,  this  was  English  in  language,  and  religious  in  sen- 
timent, and  we  now  have  a  national  literature.  When  that  mighty 
wave  of  Norman  influence  crossed  the  channel  and  reached  the  shores 
of  England,  the  Church,  the  State,  and  Literature  became  transformed, 
at  least  in  their  external  nature.  The  Norman  bishop  supplanted  the 
Saxon  bishop,  the  baron  supplanted  the  earl,  the  minstrel,  the  gleeman, 
and  end-rhyme,  alliteration.  To  all  appearances  the  revolution  was 
complete,  but  deep  down  in  the  life  and  thought  of  the  subjugated 
English,  seeds  were  growing  which  would,  in  time,  break  the  bands  of 
external  formality,  and,  in  the  milder  atmosphere  of  Norman  culture 
and  romance  cycles,  develop  into  the  graceful  and  sinewy  new  tongue. 
Its  growth  is  marked  by  the  work  of  Layamon,  the  story  tellers,  song 
and  ballad,  Wicliff,  Langland,  and  Gower,  until  it  reaches  a  stage  ready 
for  the  fashioning  of  the  master,  and  in  Chaucer  the  Formative  Period 
attains  its  culmination. 

"  Chaucer  sang  matins,  sweet  his  note  and  strong. 
His  singing-robe  the  green,  white  garb  of  Spring." 
621 


622  NOTES:    CHAUCER 

In  this  fresh,  clear,  strong  singer,  we  have  the  union  of  the  best  in 
sentiment  and  form  of  the  ages  which  preceded,  and  the  Canterbury 
Tales  is  its  finest  expression.  He  thus  modestly  describes  himself  as 
a  gleaner  in  the  fields  where  others  have  gathered  a  harvest :  — 

"  And  I  come  after,  gleaning  here  and  there. 
And  am  full  glad  if  I  can  find  an  ear 
Of  any  goodly  word  that  ye  have  left." 

He  anticipated  Shakespeare  in  the  art  of  holding  the  mirror  up  to 
nature,  "  to  show  virtue  her  own  features,  scorn  her  own  image,  and  the 
very  age  and  body  of  the  time  his  form  and  pressure." 

"Chaucer  is  the  father  of  our  splendid  English  poetry;  he  is  our 
'  well  of  English  undefiled,'  because  by  the  lovely  charm  of  his  diction, 
the  lovely  charm  of  his  movement,  he  makes  an  epoch,  and  founds  a 
tradition.  He  is  a  genuine  source  of  joy  and  strength  which  is  flowing 
still  for  us,  and  will  flow  always."  —  Matthew  Arnold. 

"  Chaucer  seems  to  me  to  have  been  one  of  the  most  purely  original 
of  poets,  as  much  so  in  respect  to  the  world  that  is  about  us,  as  Dante 
in  respect  to  that  which  is  within  us.  There  had  been  nothing  like  him 
before,  there  has  been  nothing  like  him  since."  —  J.  R.  Lowell. 

7.  yonge  sonne.  The  sun  is  young  because  it  first  entered  on  its 
course  through  the  zodiac. 

8.  the  Ram.  The  sun  runs  one  half  course  in  the  sign  of  the  Ram 
in  March,  and  the  second  in  April. 

17.  martir.     Thomas  k  Becket. 

20.  Tabard.  So  called  from  the  sign  —  a  tabard.  It  was  an  inn  in 
Southwark  by  London. 

25.  ^venture  i-falle.     By  chance  having  fallen. 

29.  esed  atte  beste.     Entertained  in  the  best  manner. 

51.  Alisaundre.     Alexandria. 

52.  the  bord  bigonne.     Taken  the  head  of  the  table. 

53-58.  Pruce,  Prussia;  Lettow,  Lithuania;  Ruce,  Russia;  Ger- 
nade,  Grenada;  Algezir,  taken  from  the  Moors  in  1344;  Belmarye, 
Palmyra;   Lyeys,  in  Armenia;   Satalye,  Attalia. 

59.  the  Grete  See.    The  Mediterranean. 

62.   Tramyssene.     Tremezen,  in  Africa. 

65.  Palatye.     A  lordship  in  Anatolia. 

88.  lady.     This  is  a  genitive. 


NOTES:    CHAUCER  623 

115.   Christophere.     Figure  worn  as  protection  from  evil. 

120.  se'int  Loy.  Saint  Eligius  who  refused  to  take  an  oath.  The 
allusion  meaning  that  the  Prioress  never  swore. 

125.    scole.     Anglo-Norman  French,  used  in  the  convents. 

173.  seint  Maure.  A  disciple  of  Seint  Beneil,  or  Benedict,  estab- 
lished the  Benedictine  order  in  France. 

210.  ordres  foure.  Dominicans,  Carmelites,  Franciscans,  Augus- 
tinians. 

220.   licenciat.     Licensed  to  hear  confession. 

254.  In  principio.  He  began  his  address  with  the  first  two  words 
of  St.  John's  Gospel. 

256.   rente.     Friars  had  no  fixed  property. 

277.  Middelburgh.     Opposite  the  Orwell  on  the  Dutch  coast. 

278.  sheeldes.     French  crowns. 

310.  Parvys.  Porch  of  St.  Paul's,  where  lawyers  met  for  con 
sultation. 

319.   fee  symple.     He  could  carry  all  before  him. 

340.  Seint  Julian.     Famous  for  good  entertainment. 

341.  after  oon.    Of  the  best. 

400.   By  water.     Drowned  his  prisoners. 

408.   Gootlond.     Jutland. 

416.   in  houres.     Watched  for  the  favorable  star  of  astrology. 

429-434.  Esculapius.  This  and  the  following  are  names  of  famous 
physicians. 

442.   pestilence.     Plagues  were  frequent  in  the  fourteenth  century. 

460.  at  chirche  dore.  Marriage  service  began  at  the  entrance  of 
the  church. 

465,466.  Boloigne,  Boulogne;  Galice,  Galicia;  Coloigne,  Cologne, 
where  were  shrines. 

Biography  and  Criticism.  —  A.  \V.  Ward,  English  Men  of  Letters; 
M.  Brown,  Chaitcer's  England ;  J.  J.  Jusserand,  Literary  History  of 
the  English  People;  English  Wayfaring  Life  in  the  Middle  Ages; 
J.  Saunders,  The  Canterbury  Tales;  H.  Corson,  The  Canterbury  Tales; 
W.  J.  Courthope,  History  of  English  Poetry,  Vol.  I. ;  J.  R.  Lowell, 
Prose,  Vol.  IH.;  W.  Minto,  Characteristics  of  English  Poets;  A.  Q. 
Couch,  Adventures  in  Criticism ;  W.  W.  Skeat,  Complete  Works  of 
Chaucer ;  T.  R.  Lounsbury,  Studies  in  Chaucer ;  W.  Hazlitt,  Lectures 
on  the  English  Poets  ;  L.  Hunt,  Essays. 


624  NOTES:  MALORY;   LYLY 


SIR  THOMAS    MALORY 

MORTE    D'ARTHUR 

In  the  early  legendary  history  of  Britain  there  rises  the  mighty  figure 
of  the  national  hero,  King  Arthur,  a  figure  around  which  has  been 
gathered  more  great  imaginative  literature  than  about  any  other  in 
history.  This  literature,  known  as  the  Arthurian  Legend,  Celtic  folk- 
lore tales,  in  origin  and  development  is  as  intricate  and  shadowy  as 
that  of  the  Homeric  poems.  In  the  fifteenth  century  innumerable 
tales  of  this  kind  had  become  crystallized  into  three  separate  romances, 
which  deal  (i)  with  Merlin  and  the  early  history  of  Arthur;  (2)  with 
Launcelot,  including  the  Quest  of  the  Grail  and  death  of  Arthur; 
(3)  with  Tristram.  Malory,  "the  servant  of  Jesu  both  day  and 
night,"  combined  these  into  a  single  story,  or  epic,  translating  many, 
if  not  all,  from  old  Anglo-French  MSS.  His  work  is  related  to  pre- 
vious prose  much  as  Chaucer's  is  to  previous  verse,  and  may  be  said  to 
mark  the  beginning  of  modern  prose  in  England.  His  book  was 
printed  by  Caxton  at  Westminster.  Malory's  style  is  exceedingly 
modern;  it  is  pure,  simple,  direct,  with  a  quaint  charm  and  nobility 
closely  related  to  that  of  Chaucer.  Speaking  of  the  century  following 
Chaucer,  in  which  there  was  a  change  from  verse  to  prose,  Professor 
Earle  says:  "The  chief  monument  of  this  change  is  the  work  of  Sir 
Thomas  Malory,  who  brought  the  Arthurian  cycle  of  legends  out  of  the 
degenerate  poetry  in  which  they  were  then  current,  and  gave  them  a 
new  life  in  English  prose.  This  is  a  monument  of  great  importance,  as 
it  is  the  first  start  of  that  career  in  the  field  of  entertaining  literature 
wherein  English  prose  would  be  eminently  successful." 

Biography  and  Criticism. —  J.  Rhys,  Studies  in  the  Arthurian 
I^egend ;  M.  W.  Maccallum,  Tennyson'' s  Ldyls  and  Arthurian  Story ; 
C.  Guest,  Boys^  King  Arthur ;  E.  Gosse,  Modern  Literature ;  Ten 
Brink,  History  of  English  Literature;  A.  T.  Martin,  Selections  from 
Malory's  King  Arthur  (Introduction). 

JOHN   LYLY 

In  the  last  quarter  of  the  sixteenth  century  there  arose  a  grotesque, 
yet  animating,  fashion  of  speech  which  Professor  Earle  calls  "  a  transient 
phase  of  madness,"  in  the  work  of  John  Lyly.     His  Euphues  is  in  two 


NOTES:   LYLY;   SIDNEY  62$ 

parts:  Euphues,  the  Anatomie  of  Wit,  and  Euphues  and  His  Eng- 
land. In  an  age  of  frivolous  tastes  and  serious  instincts,  Euphues,  a 
young  Athenian,  goes  to  Naples  and  then  to  England  to  study  men 
and  governments.  Having  become  well  informed  on  every  subject,  he 
instructs  upon  friendship,  marriage,  travel,  religion,  etc.  Euphues  is 
addressed  mainly  to  women.  "  For  I  am  content,"  he  says,  "  that  yout 
dogges  lie  in  your  laps,  so  '  Euphues '  may  be  in  your  hands."  Lyly 
established  drawing-room  literature,  full  of  extravagant  gallantry,  im- 
moderate metaphors,  strange  similes  from  the  classics  and  natural 
history.  It  was  a  mirror  of  the  life  and  talk  of  the  court.  Euphuism 
became  fashionable.  Lyly  was  petted  and  praised  by  the  ladies,  and 
became  "  king  of  the  precieiix^''  of  affectations  and  prettinesses.  Here 
is  the  germ  of  that  English  novel  of  society  which  we  find  in  Richard- 
son. For  a  ridicule  of  this  style  read  Shakespeare's  Love's  Labour 
Lost,  the  character  of  Holofernes;  and  Scott's  Monastery,  Sir  Piercie 
Shafton. 

Lyly  wrote  plays  for  Her  Majesty's  Company  of  Child  Players,  "Chil- 
dren of  Paul's."  These  were  acted  in  the  Chapel  Royal.  It  is  certain 
that  Lyly  exerted  no  little  influence  on  Shakespeare.  The  exquisite 
little  lyrics  to  be  found  in  his  dramas  are  the  forerunners  of  the  songs 
which  are  the  charm  of  Shakespeare's  plays. 

"  No  Frenchman  in  any  age  was  ever  more  light  and  gay  than  the 
'  witty,  comical,  facetiously  quick  and  unparalleled  John  Lyly,'  Queen 
Elizabeth's  favorite,  and  the  inventor  or  perfecter  of  a  fashionable  style 
of  sentimental  speech  among  her  courtiers."  —  William  Minto. 

Biography  and  Criticism.  —  F.  W.  Fairholt,  Works,  with  Life;  W. 
S.  Rushton,  Shakespeare's  Euphuism  ;  G.  Saintsbury,  Elizabethan  Lit- 
erature ;  J.  J.  Jusserand,  The  Novel  in  the  Time  of  Shakespeare  ;  W.  J. 
Courthope,  History  of  English  Poetry,  Vol.  II.;  E.  Gosse,  Modern 
Literature. 

SIR   PHILIP  SIDNEY 

Poetry  in  its  loftier  strains  had  hardly  been  heard  since  Chaucer, 
for  nearly  two  hundred  years  ;  it  had  fallen  into  discredit  and  con- 
tempt. 

Sidney's  Apologie  was  written  as  a  defence  of  the  nobler  ideas  and 
uses  of  poetry,  and  was  suggested  probably  by  the  attack  upon  poetry 
and  plays  in  Stephen  Gosson's  School  of  Abuse,  published  in  1579.  It 
2S 


626  NOTES:   SIDNEY 

sets  before  us  the  great  principles  which  governed  the  creation  of 
poetry  from  Plato  to  Spenser,  principles  which  have  been  so  splendidly 
set  forth  in  our  own  time  by  Coleridge  and  Arnold. 

"  A  specimen  of  flexible,  spirited,  fluent  prose  without  excessive  orna- 
ment of  style,  or  learned  impedimenta" — Jusserand. 

The  Arcadia  was  written  for  his  sister,  the  noble  Countess  of  Pem- 
broke, the  mother  of  William  Herbert,  the  •  W.  H.'  of  Shakespeare's 
sonnets.  "  For  severer  eyes  it  is  not,"  says  he  to  his  sister,  "  being  but 
a  trifle  and  triflingly  handled."  It  is  difficult  to  conceive  that  Sidney 
wrote  the  Apologie  and  the  Arcadia  at  the  same  time,  so  marked  is  the 
difference  in  style.  He  was  the  very  pattern  of  right  nobility,  'a  paia- 
din  of  art,'  and  it  is  natural  that  with  his  high  ideas  of  what  court  life 
should  be,  he  should  become  the  creator  of  court  Romance,  as  Lyly 
had  been  of  court  dialect.  It  may  be  considered  as  the  beginning  of 
the  English  novel  of  Romance  which  we  find  in  Defoe.  Although  he 
condemned  Euphuism  in  the  Apologie,  yet  here  it  is  highly  artificial. 
Jusserand  says,  "  When  the  book  was  published  after  his  death,  people 
were  enraptured  with  his  ingeniously  dressed  phrases.  Lyly  might 
shake  with  envy  without  having  the  right  to  complain,  for  Sidney  did 
not  imitate  him."  The  famous  Du  Bartas,  whose  works  influenced 
Milton  so  much,  named  Sidney  as  one  of  the  "  three  firm  pillars  of 
English  speech." 

"  The  Arcadia  supplanted  Euphues  in  those  circles  in  which  it  had 
been  a  fashionable  book,  and  the  new  fascination  outcharmed  the 
old."  —  Prof.  John  Earle. 

The  sonnet  is  one  of  the  most  interesting  and  artistic  of  the  literary 
forms  which  came  into  England  from  Italy.  The  leaders  of  the  Renais- 
sance, Wyatt  and  Surrey,  "  who  had  tasted  the  sweet  and  stately  meas- 
ures and  style  of  Italian  poesy,"  introduced  this  short  poem  of  fourteen 
lines  given  to  the  expression  of  a  single  idea.  With  Sidney,  Spenser, 
and  Shakespeare,  it  remained  true  to  the  Italian  spirit,  love;  but  with 
Milton  and  Wordsworth,  it  comprised  the  entire  range  of  man's  hopes, 
fears,  and  aspirations.  Sidney's  sonnets  are  an  after  tune  to  the 
Arcadia.  The  Stella  of  these  poems  is  the  daughter  of  the  Earl  of 
Essex.  Sidney's  chivalrous  youth,  his  passionate  love,  and  his  tragic 
death  have  touched  the  imagination  of  English  poets  in  a  most  mar- 
vellous manner.     Lamb  says  that  to  read  these  sonnets,  "  We  must  be 


NOTES:   SIDNEY;   BALLADS  627 

Lovers  —  or,  at  least,  the  cooling  touch  of  time,  the  circuvi  praecordia 
frigiis,  must  not  have  so  damped  bur  faculties,  as  to  take  away  our 
recollection  that  we  were  once  so." 

Biography  and  Criticism.  —  Fox  Bourne,  Heroes  of  Nations  (Sid- 
ney) ;  J.  A.  Symonds,  English  Men  of  Letters :  J.  J.  Jusserand,  The 
English  Novel  in  the  Time  of  Shakespeare ;  Literary  History  of  the 
English  People  ;  W.  J.  Courthope,  History  of  English  Poetry,  Vol.  II.; 
G.  Saintsbury,  Elizabethan  England ;  Lamb,  Last  Essays  of  Elia  ; 
E.  Gosse,  Modern  Literature. 

BALLADS 

With  the  coming  of  the  Normans,  the  English  gleeman  was  sup- 
planted in  the  high  places  by  the  Norman  minstrel,  but  yet  he  sang 
on  in  the  language  of  communal  life,  and  when  this  language  be- 
came national  in  Chaucer,  his  songs  rose  to  the  surface,  and  are  now 
cherished  as  one  of  the  lost  arts.  The  balladists  were  the  natural 
successors  of  Chaucer.  The  ballads  of  England  and  Scotland,  — 
primitive  folk-songs  of 

"  Some  natural  sorrow,  loss  or  pain. 
That  has  been  and  may  be  again,"  — 

are  placed  here  because  it  was  about  this  time  the  printer  caught  them 
and  gave  them  something  of  permanent  form,  although  they  were  con- 
stantly subject  to  alteration  until  the  eighteenth  century.  Their  authors 
are  unknown,  and  the  situations  and  incidents  are  often  the  property 
of  many  peoples.  They  were  composed  in  the  North  of  England  and 
South  of  Scotland  at  a  time  when  the  arts  were  '  by  the  people  and  for 
the  people,  a  joy  to  the  maker  and  the  user.'  They  are  born  not  of 
vainglory  nor  love  of  praise;  they  lie  deep  down  amid  the  life  of  all 
time,  and  reveal  the  great  truth  of  Abt  Vogler  as  given  by  Browning :  — 

"  Sorrow  is  hard  to  bear,  and  doubt  is  slow  to  clear; 

Each  sufferer  says  his  say,  his  scheme  of  the  weal  and  the  woe; 
But  God  has  a  few  of  us  whom  he  whispers  in  the  ear; 

The  rest  may  reason  and  welcome :  'tis  we  musicians  know." 

Bishop  Percy's  chance  discovery  of  an  old  tattered  MS.  of  these 
ballads  in  the  handwriting  of  the  early  seventeenth  century  and  their 
publication  in  1765  gave  them  a  new  lease  of  life,  and  restored  the 


628  NOTES:  BALLADS;   SPENSER 

drooping  spirits  of  English  poesy.  Scott's  splendid  collection,  The 
Minstrelsy  of  the  Scottish  Border,  in  1802,  increased  the  interest  in 
ballad  literature,  and  established  it  as  a  great  national  inheritance. 

Historical.  —  Percy,  Reliques  of  Ancient  English  Poetry;  Herd, 
Ancient  and  Modern  Scottish  Songs  ;  Ritson,  Ancient  Popular  Poetry; 
Robin  Hood;  Scott,  Minstrelsy  of  the  Scottish  Border  ;  Child,  English 
and  Scottish  Ballads  ;  Bates,  A  Ballad  Book ;  Gutnmere,  Old  English 
Ballads ;  Shairp,  Aspects  of  Poetry ;  Sketches  in  History  and  Poetry ; 
Veitch,  History  and  Poetry  of  the  Scottish  Border;  W.  Allingham,  The 
Ballad  Book. 

EDMUND   SPENSER 

The  century  which  followed  the  death  of  Chaucer  was  not  a  fruitful 
one  in  literary  art,  yet  sure  foundations  were  being  laid  in  the  inven- 
tion of  printing,  the  interest  in  classical  studies,  and  the  new  Hfe  in  the 
universities,  so  that  when  the  impulse  of  the  Renaissance  came,  it 
found  a  ready  response.  This  impulse  had  its  first  great  revelation  in 
Spenser's  Shepheard^s  Calender,  and  with  it  modern  poetry  began. 
The  Calender  consists  of  a  series  of  eclogues,  modelled  on  those  of 
Theocritus,  one  for  each  month  in  the  year.  Januarie,  June,  and 
December  treat  of  Spenser's  disappointment  in  love.  On  its  publica- 
tion Spenser  took  his  place  by  the  side  of  Chaucer,  "  the  pattern  and 
fount  of  poetry." 

Colin  Cloute  is  the  pastoral  name  under  which  Spenser  wrote,  and 
Hobbinol  is  his  friend  Gabriel  Harvey. 

Spenser's  love  of  Sidney  is  revealed  in  the  Astrophel,  the  first  of 
those  splendid  elegies  which  English  poets  have  given  to  the  world. 
It  is  dedicated  to  the  daughter  of  the  Earl  of  Essex,  the  Stella  of  Sid- 
ney's love. 

The  Rosalind  of  the  Shepheard^s  Calender  treated  Spenser  'with 
scorn  and  foule  despite,'  and  he  gave  up  the  hope  of  winning  her.     In 
1592  he  met  Elizabeth  Boyle,  and  the  story  of  his  patient  wooing  and  . 
happy  winning  of  her  love  is  told  in  the  Sonnets. 

"The  flower  of  Edmund  Spenser's  genius  is  the  most  delicately  per- 
fumed in  the  whole  rich  garden  of  English  verse."  —  Edmund  Gosse. 

"  Spenser  was  at  once  the  morning  star  of  England's  later,  and  the 
evening  star  of  her  earlier  literature."  —  Aubrey  De  Vere. 


NOTES:   SPENSER;  HOOKER;   MARLOWE       629 

Biography  and  Criticism.  —  R.  W.  Church,  English  Men  of  Letters 
Series ;  G.  Saintsbury,  Elizabethan  Literature ;  J.  R.  Lowell,  Among 
My  Books;  W.  Hazlitt,  Lectures  on  the  English  Poets ;  E.  Dowden, 
Transcripts  and  Studies;  J.  C.  Shairp,  Poetic  Lnterpretation  of  Nat- 
ure;  A.  De  Vere,  Essays  on  Poetry,  Vol.  II.;  W.  J.  Courthope,  Llis- 
tory  of  English  Poetry,  Vol.  II. 

RICHARD   HOOKER 

Hooker's  Ecclesiastical  Polity  is  one  of  the  few  theological  works 
which  attain  the  first  rank  in  literature.  His  style  is  characterized  by 
that  peculiarity  of  Latin  syntax  which  distorts  the  natural  English 
order,  and  yet  it  is  lighted  up  with  such  splendid  outbursts  of  graceful 
rhetoric  and  noble  eloquence  that  it  is  a  model  of  Hellenic  felicity, 
strength,  and  clearness. 

"  Tlu  Ecclesiastical  Polity  is  the  first  monument  of  splendid  literary 
prose  Ave  possess."  —  S.  A.  Brooke. 

Biography  and  Criticism.  —  G.  Saintsbury,  Elizabethan  Literature  ; 
E.  Gosse,  Modern  Literature  ;  J.  Earle,  English  Prose ;  Isaac  Walton, 
Life  of  Hooker  ;  R.  W.  Church,  Of  the  Laws  of  Ecclesiastical  Polity. 

CHRISTOPHER   MARLOWE 

We  often  hear  of  '  Marlowe's  mighty  line,'  but  we  seldom  read  it. 
This  may  be  due  to  the  fact  that  Shakespeare's  sprightly  line  is  so 
much  more  attractive,  yet  Marlowe  occupies  a  commanding  position 
among  pre-Shakespearean  dramatists,  and  is  worthy  of  study  both 
because  of  his  intrinsic  value  as  a  poet  and  because  of  his  relation  to 
Shakespeare.  In  splendor  of  imagination,  richness  and  stateliness  of 
verse,  strength  and  warmth  of  passion,  he  is  at  times  almost  the  equal 
of  Shakespeare.  "  Only  Milton,"  says  Mr.  Swinburne,  "  has  surpassed 
the  opening  soliloquy  of  Barabas." 

P.  112, 1.  39.  halcyon's  bill.  Anciently  a  stuffed  halcyon  was  sus- 
pended as  a  weather-vane. 

P.  117, 1.  188.   From  Terence's  Andria,  I  am  always  dear  to  myself. 

P.  120, 1.  93.   Corpo  di  Dio  1     By  my  Faith ! 

P.  129,  1.  39.  My  gains  were  not  for  everyone's  benefit. 

P.  130,  1.  64.    Exquisite  pleasure  of  money. 


630  NOTES:  MARLOWE;  SHAKESPEARE 

"  The  tragic  imagination  in  its  wildest  flights  has  never  summoned 
up  images  of  pity  and  terror  more  imposing,  more  moving,  than  those 
excited  by  ihe/ew  of  Malta."  —  George  Saintsbury. 

"  By  the  force  of  poetry,  not  of  dramatic  art,  Marlowe  made  a  noble 
porch  to  the  temple  which  Shakespeare  built."  —  S.  A.  Brooke. 

Biography  and  Criticism. — J.  A.  Symonds,  Introduction  to  Mar- 
lowe (Mermaid  Series);  Havelock  Ellis,  Christopher  Marlowe;  G.  Saints- 
bury,  Elizabethan  Literature ;  E.  Dowden,  Christopher  Marlozve 
(Transcripts  and  Studies) ;  J.  R.  Lowell,  The  Old  English  Dramatists. 

WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE 

Sonnets 

We  have  not  always  given  due  consideration  to  the  lyrical  ele- 
ment in  Shakespeare's  works,  so  much  has  the  dramatic  attracted  us. 
Wordsworth  says,  "  With  this  key  Shakespeare  unlocked  his  heart." 
If  this  be  so,  he  did  not  throw  open  the  door  wide  enough  for  the 
critics  to  get  a  very  clear  view  of  what  was  within.  Nothing  in  the 
history  of  literature  is  more  humorous  than  the  pranks  Puck  has 
played  with  these  men.  Life  is  too  short  to  examine  all  the  theories 
as  to  who  was  "  W.  H.,  the  onlie  begetter  of  these  insuing  sonnets." 
Some  have  refused  to  trace  their  origin  to  real  incidents  in  Shake- 
speare's life,  and  think  that  they  are  allegorical  or  philosophical;  that 
the  young  friend  is  the  poet's  Ideal  Self,  or  the  Spirit  of  Beauty;  that 
the  dark  mistress  is  Dramatic  Art,  or  the  Bride  of  the  Canticles,  etc. 

Professor  Dowden  says :  "  In  the  Sonnets  we  recognize  three  things, 
—  that  Shakespeare  was  capable  of  measureless  personal  devotion; 
that  he  was  tenderly  sensitive,  sensitive,  above  all,  to  every  diminution 
or  alteration  of  that  love  his  heart  so  eagerly  craved." 

Biography  and  Criticism.  —  H.  Phillips,  Outlines  of  the  Life  of 
Shakespeare;  Gervinus,  Shakespeare  Commentaries;  E.  Dowden, 
Shakespeare,  his  Mind  and  Art;  Shakespeare's  Sonnets;  H.  N. 
Hudson,  Shakespeare's  Life,  Art,  and  Character ;  C.  Elze,  William 
Shakespeare;  W.J.  Rolfe,  The  Boyhood  of  Shakespeare ;  W.  Hazlitt, 
Lectures  on  the  English  Poets;  G.  Wyndham,  The  Poems  of  Shake- 
speare. 


NOTES:    THE  BIBLE;   BACON  63 1 

THE  BIBLE 

There  can  be  no  doubt  that  the  influence  of  the  Bible  of  1 61 1, 
known  as  the  Authorized  or  King  James  Version,  has  exerted  a  greater 
influence  in  enriching  and  ennobhng  English  prose  than  has  any  other 
book  in  the  language;  and  the  process  by  which  our  English  attains 
its  distinction  of  directness,  strength,  and  beauty,  of  simplicity,  sub- 
limity, and  harmony,  ought  to  prove  of  interest  to  all  students.  "  If 
we  may  reckon  from  the  time  when  Tyndale  may  be  supposed  to  have 
begun  his  work,"  says  Professor  Earle,  "we  may  count  the  Bible  of  161 1 
as  the  nation's  travails  of  a  hundred  years."  While  the  Revised  Ver- 
sion has  its  advantages  of  translation  and  division  of  text  into  verse 
and  prose,  yet  the  Authorized  Edition  will  ever  remain  as  the  noblest 
example  of  the  English  tongue. 

"  I  have  with  deeper  gratitude  to  chronicle  what  I  owed  to  my 
mother  for  the  resolutely  consistent  lessons  which  so  exercised  me  in 
the  Scriptures  as  to  make  every  word  of  them  familiar  to  my  ear  in 
habitual  music.  .  .  .  This  maternal  installation  of  my  mind  in  that 
property  of  chapters,  I  count  very  confidently  the  most  precious,  and, 
on  the  whole,  the  most  essential,  part  of  all  my  education."  —  Ruskin. 

Historical  and  Critical.  —  J.  Earle,  English  Prose,  Chap.  XII.; 
G.  Saintsbury,  Elizabethan  Literature,  Chap.  VI.;  J.  R.  Green,  History 
of  the  English  People,  Bk.  VII.,  Chap.  I.;  Bowen,  A  iMyman's  Study 
of  the  English  Bible,  Chap.  I.;  J.  H.  Newman,  Idea  of  a  University, 
pp.  289,  290;  A.  S.  Cook,  The  Bible  and  English  Prose  Style ;  Taine, 
English  Literature,  Vol.  I.,  "  The  Christian  Renaissance." 

FRANCIS   BACON 

It  is  a  singular  fact  that,  of  the  many  writings  of  Bacon,  the  Essays 
which  he  committed  to  the  frail  bark  of  our  English — which  he  thought 
would  "play  the  bankrupt  with  books  "  — are  those  whose  immortality 
is  best  assured.  Their  dignity,  wealth  of  fancy,  masculine  grasp  of  eth- 
ical questions,  language  all  compact,  produce  an  eff'ect,  not  of  warmth 
and  friendliness,  but  of  intellectual  activity.  Bacon  called  himself  "  a 
bell-ringer  who  is  up  first  to  call  others  to  church." 

P.  157,  1.  31.  Vinum  Daemonum.  Wine  of  spirits  (Augustine's 
Confessions^. 


632  NOTES:  BACON;  JONS  ON 

P.  161, 11.  39,  40.  Abeunt  studia  in  Mores.  Studies  terminate  in 
manners. 

P.  161, 1.  50.  Cjrmini  sectores.     Splitters  of  hairs,  dialecticians. 

"  As  English  prose  Bacon's  Essays  is  indeed  a  very  remarkable  book, 
especially  as  it  lets  us  see  through  the  now  prevailing  and  rampant 
Classicism  to  some  select  retreat  where  the  true  English  tradition 
flourishes  with  its  native  vigor."  —  Professor  John  Earle. 

Biography  and  Criticism.  —  R.  W.  Church,  English  Men  of  Let- 
ters; E.  Gosse,  Modern  Literature ;  G.  Saintsbury,  Elizabethan  Liter- 
ature;  J.  Spedding,  Letters  and  Life  of  Bacon  and  Life  and  Times; 
E.  A.  Abbott,  Bacon  and  Essex  ;  P.  Anton,  England's  Essayists. 

BEN  JONSON 

The  contrast  between  Shakespeare  and  Jonson  has  often  been 
expressed  by  saying  that  one  wrote  plays,  and  the  other  works;  but  we 
must  not  forget  that,  with  his  ponderous  learning  and  prodigious  power 
of  work,  Jonson  knew  how  to  play.  Witness  that  magnificent  group 
of  masques  which  he  created  between  1600  and  1635.  Early  in  the 
reign  of  Elizabeth,  when  the  miracle  plays  and  mysteries  were  evolved 
into  the  pageant  and  the  drama  of  Shakespeare,  there  was  also  evolved 
a  ceremonial  in  which  actors  represented  allegorical  characters,  and 
accompanied  lords  and  ladies  on  great  occasions  for  the  purpose  of 
lending  interest  by  action,  dialogue,  music,  and  dance.  In  the  reign 
of  James  I.  and  Charles  I.  these  entertainments  were  frequent  and 
magnificently  apportioned.  Artists,  musicians,  poets,  and  managers 
were  commissioned  to  prepare  the  pageant  for  a  marriage,  a  birthday, 
a  royal  visitor,  or  the  reception  of  distinguished  foreigners,  and  the 
pastoral  or  idyl  of  Spenser  appeared  as  a  pastoral  drama  or  masque. 

P.  170, 1.  5.   elementarii  senes.     Old  men  at  their  A  B  C's. 

P.  170, 1.  27.  Deorum  hominumque  interpres.  The  interpreter  of 
gods  and  men. 

P.  170,  1.  32-  'EvKVKXoirai8€£av.     The  circle  of  general  education. 

P.  170, 1.  34.  Verborum  delectus  origo  est  eloquentiae.  Choice  of 
words  is  the  beginning  of  eloquence. 

P.  171,1.  42.   translation.     Rhetorical  figure. 

P.  171, 1.  43.  Nam  temerS  nihil  transferatur  a  prudenti.  A  wise 
man  uses  no  metaphors  at  random. 


NOTES:  JONS  ON;  MILTON  633 

"  One  title  which  no  competent  criticism  has  ever  grudged  him  is 
that  of  the  best  epitaph  writer  in  the  English  language."  —  George 
Saintsbury. 

Biography  and  Criticism.  —  G.  Sa.\n\shvixy,  Elizabethan  Literature ; 
E.  Gosse,  Modern  Literature  ;  Barry  Cornwall,  Memoir  (Moxon  edition 
of  Jonson's  Works) ;  E.  P.  Whipple,  Literature  of  the  Age  of  Elizabeth  ; 
W.  Hazlitt,  Lectures  on  the  English  Poets. 

JOHN   MILTON 

The  stars  which  shed  their  influences  around  the  cradle  of  Milton 
were  of  the  Renaissance  and  Reformation  respectively.  The  one  was 
setting  in  splendor  and  beauty;  the  other  was  rising  in  dignity  and 
power.  The  great  names  of  Elizabethan  England  are  Sidney,  Spen- 
ser, Shakespeare;  of  Puritan  England  they  are  Milton  and  Bunyan. 
Milton  is  a  solitary  peak  that  caught  the  last  gleams  of  the  Renaissance 
and  flashed  them  across  a  century.  In  their  light  arose  Wordsworth 
and  Coleridge,  those 

"Twin  morning  stars  of  the  new  century's  song." 

P.  178, 1.  102.   Faery  Mab.     Cf.  Romeo  and  Juliet,  i.  4. 
P.  181,  1.  19.   Ethiop.     Cassiope. 
P.  183, 1.  109.  him.     Chaucer. 

"  Milton  almost  requires  a  solemn  service  of  music  to  be  played 
before  you  enter  upon  him.  But  he  brings  his  music,  to  which  who 
listens  had  need  bring  docile  thoughts  and  purged  ears." — Charles 
Lamb. 

Milton's  prose  was  developed  in  the  heat  of  political  and  religious 
controversy.  The  Apology  was  in  defence  of  his  manner  of  life,  and 
the  Areopagitica,^  plea  for  the  free  development  of  men  and  books. 
They  are  the  finest  specimens  of  his  stately,  brilliant,  and  lucid  prose. 

Biography  and  Criticism.  —  D.  Masson,  Life  of  John  Milton  ;  R. 
Garnett,  Great  Writers;  M.  Pattison,  English  Men  of  I^etters ;  Arnold, 
Essays  in  Criticism,  2d  Series;  A.  Birrell,  Obiter  Dicta,  Vol.  II.;  S.  A. 
Brooke,  Classical  Writers  (Milton);  J.  R.  Lowell,  Prose,  IV.;  H.  Van 
'DyVt,  Poetry  of  Tennyson  (Milton  and  Tennyson);  W.  E.  Channing, 
Works  ;  W.  Hazlitt,  Lectures  on  the  English  Poets. 


634  NOTES:   BUTLER;   BUN  VAN 

SAMUEL   BUTLER 

We  have  seen  that  the  literature  of  the  age  of  Elizabeth  was  char- 
acterized by  the  Greek  spirit,  —  "spontaneity  of  consciousness";  and 
that  of  the  Reformation  by  the  Hebrew, —  "strictness  of  conscience." 
As  a  result  of  the  Restoration  a  new  school  arises,  in  which  French 
influence  prevails,  emphasizing  correctness  of  form  rather  than  spon- 
taneity of  feeUng.  Hence  poetry  becomes  intellectual,  even  contro- 
versial. Butler  represents  the  satiric,  Dryden  and  Pope  the  didactic 
and  critical,  —  of  the  head  rather  than  of  the  heart.  Hudibras  reveals 
the  fierce  and  caustic  resentment  against  the  Puritans.  It  was  eagerly 
read  at  the  very  time  when  Milton's  Paradise  Lost  remained  almost 
unnoticed. 

P.  197, 1.  124.  Sorbonist.  Member  of  the  French  College  of  the 
Sorbonne. 

"The  sense  of  Butler  is  masculine,  his  wit  inexhaustible,  and  it  is 
supplied  from  every  source  of  reading  and  observation."  —  Hallam. 

Biography  and  Criticism.  —  E.  Gosse,  Eighteentlt  Century  Litera- 
ture; Modern  Literature ;  H.  Morley,  Hudibras;  S,  Johnson,  Lives 
of  the  Poets. 

JOHN  BUNYAN 

Pilgrim's  Progress 

"  To  the  Constables  of  Bedford  and  to  every  of  them 

Whereas  information  and  complaint  is  made  unto  us 
that  (notwithstanding  the  King's  Majties  late  Act  of 

J.  Napier  most  gracious  generall  and  free  pardon  to  all  his  sub- 

jects for  past  misdemeanors  that  by  his  said  clemencie 
and  indulgent  grace  and  favor  they  might  bee  moved 

W.  Beecher  and  induced  for  the  time  to  come  more  carefully  to 
observe  his  Highness'  lawes  and  Statutes  and  to  con- 

G.  Blundell  tinue  in  theire  loyall  and  due  obedience  to  his  Majtie) 

Yett  one  John  Bunnyon  of  youre  said  Towne  Tynker 
hath  divers  times  within  one  month  last  past  in  con- 
tempt of  his  Majties  Good  Lawes  preached  or  teached 

Hum :  Monoux  at  a  Conventicle  Meeting,  or  Assembly  under  color  or 
ptence  of  exercise  of  Religion  in  other  manner  than 
according  to  the  Liturgie  or  practiss  of  the  Church  of 


NOTES:   BUNYAN  635 

Will  fl'ranklin  England  These  are  therefore  in  his  Majties  name  to 
command  you  forthwith  to  apprehend  and  bring  the 
Body  of  the  said  John  Bunnion  before  us  or  any  of  us 
or  other  his  Majties  Justice  of  Peace  within  the  said 

John  Ventris  County  to  answer  the  premisses  and  further  to  doo  and 
receave  as  to  Lawe  and  Justice  shall  appertaine  and 
hereof  you  are  not  to  faile.  Given  under  our  handes 
and  scales  this  fforth  day  of  March  in  the  seven  and 
twentieth  yeare  of  the  Raigne  of  our  most  gracious 
Soveraigne  Lord  King  Charles  the  Second.  A°  que 
Dili  juxta  <ic  1674 

Will  Spencer 
Will  Gery  St  Jo  Chervocke  Wm  Daniels 

T  Browne  W  ffoster 

Gaius  Squire  " 

This  warrant  was  the  occasion  of  the  second  imprisonment  of  Bun- 
yan.  During  this  imprisonment  he  wrote  Pilgrini's  Progress.  The 
place  which  this  religious  allegory  holds  in  the  history  of  English 
literature  is  unique.  Its  origin  and  its  history  combine  to  make  it  one 
of  the  most  interesting  of  literary  masterpieces  which  the  world  pos- 
sesses. In  graphic  characterization,  in  breadth  of  sympathy,  in  rich- 
ness of  imagination,  in  clearness  and  force  of  homely  Saxon  speech,  it 
is  the  greatest  of  all  the  monuments  created  by  the  English  Bible.  As 
a  product  of  the  influences  of  the  Reformation,  it  stands  beside  the 
works  of  Milton,  with  which  it  is  spiritually  akin. 

"  Bunyan,  with  whom  the  visionary  power  was  often  involuntary, 
would  live  for  a  day  and  a  night  in  some  metaphor  that  had  attacked 
his  imagination."  —  Euward  Dowden. 

"  For  wisdom  dealt  with  mortal  powers, 
Where  truth  in  closest  words  shall  fail, 
When  truth  embodied  in  a  tale 
Shall  enter  in  at  lowly  doors."  —  TENNYSON. 

Biography  and  Criticism.  —  J.  Brown,  Bunyan:  His  Life  and 
Works;  J.  A.  Froude,  English  Alen  of  Letters ;  E.  Venables,  Great 
Writers  ;  G.  Dawson,  Biographical  Lectures  ;  Macaulay,  iS'waj'i,  Vol.  I.; 
E.  Gosse,  Modern  Literature. 


636  NOTES:  DRYDEN;  DEFOE 

JOHN  DRYDEN 

Dryden  is  the  greatest  literary  force  in  the  Age  of  the  Restoration 
because  of  the  excellence  as  well  as  the  variety  of  his  work.     With 
him  English  criticism  begins.     His  criticism  is  based  on  the  canon : 
"  Polish,  repolish,  every  color  lay, 
And  sometimes  add,  but  oftener  take  away." 

He  was  a  vigorous  satirist,  but  always  fair  and  honorable  in  combat, 
—  a  subtle  intellectualist  in  verse.  By  force  of  his  masculine  reason 
he  elevated  criticism  above  creation,  and  for  a  century  he  was  the 
literary  dictator  of  a  large  band  of  craftsmen.  He  said,  "  They  cannot 
be  good  poets  who  are  not  accustomed  to  argue  well." 

The  Elegy  on  Mrs.  Anne  Killegrew,  maid  of  honor  to  the  Duchess 
of  York,  and  Alexander's  Feast  reveal  Dryden  at  his  best  in  elegant, 
stately,  and  musical  verse. 

P.  209,  1.  18.  Virgil,  Eclogue,  i.  As  are  the  cypresses  among  the 
pliant  shrubs. 

P.  212, 1.99.   wit.     Used  here  in  sense  of  genius. 

P.  213,  1.  23.   traduction.     Derived  from  one  of  the  same  kind. 

P.  217,  1.  162.  Orinda.  The  poetess  Katherine  Phillips.  Anne 
Killegrew  wrote  some  verses  in  her  honor. 

"  We  are  to  regard  Dryden  as  the  puissant  and  glorious  founder. 
Pope  as  the  splendid  high  priest,  of  our  age  of  prose  and  reason,  of 
our  excellent  and  indispensable  eighteenth  century.  .  .  .  Though  they 
may  write  in  verse,  though  they  may  in  a  certain  sense  be  masters  of 
the  art  of  versification,  Dryden  and  Pope  are  not  classics  of  our  poetry, 
they  are  classics  of  our  prose."  —  Matthew  Arnold. 

Biography  and  Criticism.  — Johnson,  Lives  of  the  Poets;  G.  Saints- 
bury,  English  Men  of  Letters  ;  E.  Gosse,  Eighteenth  Century  Literature  ; 
Macaulay,  Essay  on  Dryden;  Lowell,  Prose,  Vol.  HI.;  Hazlitt,  Lec- 
tures on  the  English  Poets. 

DANIEL  DEFOE 

The  rise  of  periodical  literature  is  the  result  of  the  new  social  activity 
in  the  reign  of  Anne.  In  1704,  Defoe  established  the  Review,  in  which 
his  discussions  on  subjects  most  interesting  to  the  Scandalous  Club  were 
presented.     Time  plays  pranks  with  the  plans  of  men,  and  Robinson 


NOTES:   DEFOE;   SWIFT  637 

Crusoe,  intended  as  a  parable  of  Defoe's  own  life,  "  though  allegorical," 
he  says,  "  yet  historical,"  has  become  a  story  of  adventure  pure  and 
simple,  —  the  greatest  child  book  in  the  language.  It  is  the  first  great 
English  novel. 

"  Robinson  Crusoe  is  one  of  the  exceptional  cases  in  which  the  poeti- 
cal aspect  of  a  position  is  brought  out  best  by  the  most  prosaic  accuracy 
of  detail.  The  want  of  power  in  describing  exertion,  as  compared  with 
the  amazing  power  of  describing  facts,  makes  Robinson  Crusoe  a  book 
for  boys."  —  Leslie  Stephen. 

P.  226,  1.  77.   coup-de-grace.     Blow  that  would  kill. 
P.  230, 1.  45.   fire.     The  great  fire  in  London,  1666. 

In  \he  Journal  of  the  Plague  in  Lotidon,  we  see  Defoe  as  a  chronicler, 
of  infinite  pains,  versatile,  clear,  and  easy  in  style,  yet  not  altogether 
free  from  the  commonplace. 

Biography  and  Criticism.  —  W.  Minto,  English  Men  of  Letters; 
L.  Stephen,  Hours  in  a  Library,  Vol.  I.;  Hazlitt,  Early  Life  and 
Works ;  E.  Gosse,  Eighteenth  Century  IMerature ;  A.  Q.  Couch,  Ad- 
ventures in  Criticism ;  W.  Raleigh,  The  English  Novel;  D.  Masson, 
British  Novelists ;  T.  Wright,  Defoe ;  W.  Chadwick,  Life  and  Times 
of  Daniel  Defoe. 

JONATHAN   SWIFT 

The  life  of  Dean  Swift  abounds  in  the  most  startling  contradictions. 
He  was  poor,  proud,  a  good  hater,  and  a  passionate  lover.  He  sinned 
greatly,  and  he  suffered  greatly;  he  was  unforgetful  and  unforgiving. 
He  aimed  his  shafts  at  Dissenters,  the  Church  of  England  in  which  he 
was  a  high  official,  and  the  Catholics.  The  Battle  of  the  Books  was 
written  to  defend  Temple  against  the  insinuations  of  Bentley  and 
Walton,  which  appeared  in  their  Reflections  upon  Ancient  and  Modern- 
Lear  ning. 

Swift's  inventive  genius  was  of  the  first  order,  his  language  vigorous, 
his  satire  keen,  and  his  indignation  tempestuous.  All  of  these  charac- 
teristics are  revealed  in  that  "  gospel  of  hatred  and  testament  of  woe," 
Gulliver'' s  Travels,  where  he  mocks  at  the  social  life,  satirizes  the  in- 
ventors and  philosophers,  and  ridicules  the  politicians. 

P.  237,  1.  83.   brutum  hominis.     Irrational  part  of  man. 


638  NOTES:  SWIFT;  ADDISON 

Addison,  on  sending  one  of  his  books  to  Swift,  wrote  on  the  blank 

leaf: 

"  To  Dr.  Jonathan  Swift, 

The  most  agreeable  companion, 

The  truest  friend, 

And  the  greatest  genius  of  the  age," 

"  If  the  stormy  Dean  had  known  that  his  Gulliver  book  would  be 
mostly  relished  by  young  folks,  only  for  its  story,  and  that  its  tremen- 
dous satire  —  which  he  intended  should  cut  and  draw  blood  —  would 
have  only  rarest  appreciation,  how  he  would  have  raved  and  sworn ! " 
—  D.  G.  Mitchell, 

Biography  and  Criticism.  —  E.  Gosse,  Eighteenth  Century  Litera- 
ture; Modern  Literature ;  L,  Stephen,  English  Men  of  Letters;  G.  Daw- 
son, Biographical  Lectures;  S.  Johnson,  Lives  of  the  Poets;  Hazlitt, 
Lectures  on  the  English  Poets ;  A.  Birrell,  Men,  Women  and  Books. 


JOSEPH   ADDISON 

The  Review  was  followed  by  the  Spectator  in  i6ii,  by  which  the 
English  essay  was  created  as  one  of  the  most  enduring  of  literary  forms. 
In  its  columns  there  appeared  those  splendid  studies  of  man  and  nature 
which  have  made  the  name  of  Addison  a  household  word,  and  genial 
Sir  Roger  a  delight  of  old  and  young.  In  graphic  portraiture  and 
genial  humor,  in  sweet  temper  and  moral  purity,  combined  with  a 
courtly  grace  and  tender  sympathy,  Addison  stands  surpassingly  great. 
He  is  a  great  poet  using  the  form  of  prose.  His  imagination  is  asso- 
ciative, penetrative,  and  reflective, 

"  Whoever  wishes  to  attain  an  English  style,  familiar  but  not  coarse, 
and  elegant  but  not  ostentatious,  must  give  his  days  and  nights  to  the 
reading  of  Addison,"  —  Samuel  Johnson. 

Biography  and  Criticism,  —  W,  J,  Courthope,  English  Men  of 
Letters  Series ;  J.  Ashton,  Social  Life  in  the  Reign  of  Queen  Anne ; 
Macaulay,  Essay  on  Addison ;  Hazlitt,  Lectures  on  the  English  Poets 
(The  Periodical  Essayists);  Johnson,  Lives  of  the  Poets;  E.  Gosse, 
Eighteenth  Century  Literature. 


NOTES:   POPE;    THOMSON  639 

ALEXANDER  POPE 

Imagination  and  passion  disappeared  from  poetry  with  the  new  criti- 
cism, the  introduction  of  drawing-room  subjects  and  court  finery.  In 
Pope  the  classical  spirit  attained  its  fullest  and  completest  development. 
On  the  death  of  Dryden  he  ascended  the  vacant  throne,  and  ruled  with 
despotic  power.  Though  his  work  is  as  various  as  that  of  his  great 
predecessor,  it  is  lacking  in  breadth  and  robustness.  Dexterity  and 
elegance  take  the  first  position.  The  follies  of  fashion  or  the  frigid 
intellectualism  of  a  thin  philosophy  claim  the  most  attention;  and  yet 
it  cannot  be  doubted  that  Pope  was  an  artist  who  loved  art  for  its 
own  sake,  even  at  a  time  when  it  was  degraded  to  mere  pecuniary 
ends, 

"  Measured  by  any  high  standard  of  imagination,  Pope  will  be  found 
wanting;  tried  by  any  test  of  wit,  he  is  unrivalled."  —  Lowell. 

Biography  and  Criticism.  —  L.  Stephen,  English  Men  of  Letters  ; 
Thackeray,  Henry  Esmond ;  Addison,  Spectator,  No.  253;  Johnson, 
Lives  of  the  Poets  ;  De  Quincey,  Essay  on  Pope  ;  On  the  Poetry  of  Pope  ; 
Lowell,  Essay  on  Pope  ;  Gosse,  From  Shakespeare  to  Pope ;  Eighteenth 
Century  Literature;  Hazlitt,  Lectures  on  the  English  Poets. 


JAMES  THOMSON 

The  dawn  of  the  new  era  (Modern  Period)  is  heralded  by  Thomson, 
Gray,  Collins,  and  Goldsmith.  New  subjects,  new  spirit,  new  forms, 
were  now  to  be  the  watchword.  With  the  first  movements  of  the 
rights  of  man  —  due  to  the  principles  of  Milton  and  Vane,  which  had 
taken  root  in  France  —  a  new  religious  activity  due  to  the  fact  that 
the  best  elements  of  Puritanism  had  lived  in  the  simple  quietude  of 
country  life  among  strong  men  and  noble  women,  and  a  fresh  feel- 
ing for  nature,  a  reaction  from  the  stifling  atmosphere  of  town  life, 
manifested  themselves  in  the  new  movement,  which  was  democratic, 
deeply  religious,  simple,  fresh,  and  true.  Thomson's  Seasons  reveal 
the  first  impulse  of  the  new  life.  They  are  simple,  direct,  and  vigorous, 
when  compared  with  any  work  of  the  classic  period.  They  are  some- 
what after  the  manner  of  the  early  Scottish  poets.  He  wrote  with  his 
eye  on  the  subject,  and  has  given  some  delightful  nature  work. 


640  NOTES:    THOMSON;  JOHNSON 

P.  281,1.  loi.  There  was  a  man,  etc.  William  Paterson,  Thom« 
son's  amanuensis. 

P.  282, 1.  129.    One  shyer  still.     The  poet  Armstrong. 

"No  degeneracy  of  education  or  of  fashion,  short  of  an  absolute 
return  to  barbarism,  can  prevent  The  Seasons  from  attracting  admira- 
tion as  soon  as  they  are  read  or  heard."  —  George  Saintsbury. 

Biography  and  Criticism.  —  E.  Gosse,  Eighteenth  Century  Litera- 
ture ;  J.  Veitch,  Feeling  for  Nature  in  Scottish  Poetry  ;  J.  C.  Shairp, 
Poetic  Interpretation  of  Nature  ;  W.  Minto,  Literature  of  the  Georgian 
Era;  Johnson,  Lives  of  the  Poets;  G.  Saintsbury,  IVard's  English 
Poets,  Vol.  III.;  Hazlitt,  Lectures  on  the  English  Poets;  W.  Bayne, 
Famous  Scots  Series. 

SAMUEL  JOHNSON 

Johnson  is  in  many  respects  as  strange  a  character  as  Swift.  He 
ascended  the  loveless  intellectual  throne  made  vacant  by  the  death  of 
Pope;  but  already  forces  were  at  work  which  were  to  set  aside  the 
petty  rules  so  slavishly  obeyed  from  Dryden  to  Pope,  and  return  again 
to  the  great  principles  which  characterized  the  Elizabethans.  John- 
son's work  is  as  varied  in  prose  as  that  of  his  predecessors  in  verse. 
The  Rambler  and  The  Ldler,  successors  to  The  Tatler  and  The  Spec- 
tator, furnished  the  medium  through  which  much  of  his  work  was  given 
to  the  public.  The  Preface  to  his  edition  of  Shakespeare  is  full  of  the 
ripest  good  sense,  while  the  Letter  to  the  Earl  shows  how  independent 
of  patronage  he  was. 

"The  more  we  study  Johnson,  the  higher  will  be  our  esteem  for 
the  power  of  his  mind,  the  width  of  his  interests,  the  largeness  of 
his  knowledge,  the  freshness,  fearlessness,  and  strength  of  his  judg- 
ments." —  Matthew  Arnold. 

Biography  and  Criticism.  —  Boswell's  lAfe  of  Johnson,  edited  by 
G.  Birkbeck  Hill;  L.  Stephen,  English  Men  of  Letters ;  Hawthorne, 
Our  Old  LLome;  Essays  on  Johnson,  by  Macaulay  and  Carlyle,  \x\  John- 
son's Lives  of  the  Poets,  edited  by  Matthew  Arnold ;  F.  Grant,  Great 
Writers;  A.  Birrell,  Obiter  Dicta,  Vol.  H.;  E.  Gosse,  Eighteenth  Cen- 
tury Literature  ;  L.  Stephen,  Hours  in  a  Library. 


NOTES:    GRAY;    COLLINS  64! 

THOMAS   GRAY 

"  He  never  spoke  out.  In  these  four  words,"  says  Arnold,  "is  con- 
tained the  whole  history  of  Gray,  both  as  a  man  and  as  a  poet."  In 
the  age  of  transition  Gray  did  a  noble  work  in  prose  and  verse,  in 
that  he  was  the  first  Englishman  to  reveal  the  beauties  of  English 
landscape.  His  letters  describing  nature  in  Yorkshire  and  Westmore- 
land are  even  superior  to  his  poetry  in  minuteness,  freshness,  and 
wealth  of  imagery.  The  Elegy  is  English  in  every  detail;  in  it  are 
united  the  love  of  nature  and  the  love  of  man. 

"  If  few  English  poets  have  written  so  little,  none  certainly  have 
written  so  little  that  has  fallen  into  oblivion."  —  Leslie  Stephen. 

Biography  and  Criticism.  —  E.  Gosse,  English  Men  of  Letters; 
Eighteenth  Century  Literature ;  J.  C.  Shairp,  Poetic  Interpretation  of 
Nature;  M.  Arnold,  Essays  on  Criticism,  2d  Series;  J.  R.  Lowell, 
Latest  Literary  Essays ;  L.  Stephen,  Hours  in  a  Zi^rary,  Vol.  III.; 
W.  L.  Phelps,  Selections  from  the  Prose  and  Poetry  of  Gray  (Intro- 
duction);  W.  Minto,  Literature  of  the  Georgian  Era. 

WILLIAM  COLLINS 

In  the  work  of  Collins  there  is  much  less  restraint  than  in  that  of 
Gray.  Collins  indeed  spoke  out.  This  was  due  in  part  to  the  fact  that 
he  was  not  troubled  by  any  of  the  critical  sensitiveness  which  made 
Gray  cautious.  His  love  of  beauty  in  man  and  nature  was  more  intense 
than  that  of  Gray. 

P.  306,  1.  36.   Till  they,  etc.     The  Medici. 

P.  312, 1.  I.  In  yonder  grave.  Thomson  was  buried  in  Richmond 
Church. 

"The  direct  sincerity  and  purity  of  their  positive  and  straightforward 
inspiration  will  always  keep  his  poems  fresh  and  sweet  to  the  senses  of 
all  men.  He  was  a  solitary  song-bird  among  many  more  or  less  excel- 
lent pipers."  —  A.  C.  Swinburne. 

Biography  and  Criticism.  —  E.  Gosse,  Eighteenth  Century  Litera- 
ture; W.  Minto,  Literature  of  the  Georgian  Era;  J.  C.  Shairp,  Poetic 
Interpretation  of  Nature;  A.  C.  Swinburne,  IVard^s  English  Poets, 
Vol.  III.;  Hazlitt,  Lectures  on  the  English  Poets. 
2T 


642  NOTES:    GOLDSMITH;  BURKE 

OLIVER  GOLDSMITH 

Goldsmith,  the  impassioned,  wayward,  frolicsome  Irishman,  is  one  of 
the  best  loved  of  the  poets;  he  is  loved  for  his  very  eccentricity.  His 
life  is  fascinating  in  its  nobility  and  foolishness.  In  the  Deserted  Vil- 
lage and  the  Vicar  of  Wakefield  we  have  his  love  of  nature  and  man, 
shot  through  with  the  characteristic  elements  of  his  varied  and  event- 
ful life.  They  are  graceful  and  touching  in  their  revelation  of  the 
pleasures  and  pains  of  mortal  life,  and  yet  there  is  not  an  element  of 
bitterness.  In  each  nature  and  man  are  revealed  with  distinctness  and 
color,  with  warmth  and  naturalness,  entirely  new  to  English  literature. 
No  changes  of  literary  fashion  can  ever  lessen  the  estimation  in  which 
these  works  are  held  by  all  who  love  simplicity  and  truth. 

"  It  is  doubtful  whether,  either  before,  during,  or  since  Wordsworth's 
time,  the  sentiment  that  the  imagination  can  infuse  into  the  common 
things  around  us  ever  received  more  happy  expression." — William 
Black. 

Biography  and  Criticism.  —  W.  Black,  English  Men  of  Letters;  A. 
Dobson,  Great  Writers ;  Macaulay,  Essay  on  Goldsmith;  De  Quincey, 
Essay  on  Goldsmith  ;  G.  Dawson,  Biographical  Lectures  ;  J.  C.  Shairp, 
Poetic  Interpretation  of  Nature  ;  E.  Gosse,  Eighteenth  Century  Litera- 
ture;  W.  Minto,  Literature  of  the  Georgian  Era. 

EDMUND   BURKE 

During  the  last  half  of  the  eighteenth  century,  when  the  energy  of 
England  was  taxed  to  its  utmost  in  the  political  arena,  there  was  devel- 
oped the  literature  of  oratory,  and  British  eloquence  added  new  splen- 
dor to  prose.  The  times  were  seeking  the  man  of  large  and  liberal 
ideas.  There  existed  a  reading  public.  Parliamentary  speeches  were 
now  allowed  to  be  published.  The  press  was  practically  free  to  praise 
or  blame.  The  post  carried  the  pamphlet  and  the  newspaper  to  the 
villages,  and  thus  the  English  people  became  the  audience.  At  length 
the  man  was  found,  and  that  man  was  Edmund  Burke. 

The  Speeches  on  the  American  War  reveal  Burke  in  his  most  charm- 
ing attitude.  He  is  calm,  clear,  logical,  nobly  tolerant,  and  grandly 
wise. 


NOTES:   BURKE;    COW  PER  643 

"  Burke  is  not  literary  because  he  takes  from  books,  but  because  he 
makes  books,  transmuting  what  he  writes  upon  into  literature.  It  is 
this  inevitable  literary  quality,  this  sure  mastery  of  style,  that  mark  the 
man,  as  much  as  the  thought  itself."  —  WooDROW  Wilson. 

"  Wordsworth  has  been  called  the  High  Priest  of  Nature,"  says  Mr. 
Augustine  Birrell,  "  and  Burke  may  be  called  the  High  Priest  of  Order 
—  a  lover  of  settled  ways,  justice,  peace,  and  security.  His  writings 
are  a  storehouse  of  wisdom,  not  the  cheap  siirewdness  of  the  mere  man 
of  the  world,  but  the  noble,  animating  wisdom  of  one  who  has  the 
poet's  heart  as  well  as  a  statesman's  brain." 

Biography  and  Criticism.  —  J.  Morley,  English  Men  of  Letters ; 
Goodrich,  Select  British  Eloquence ;  F.  W.  Maurice,  Friendship  of 
Books;  Hazlitt,  Political  Essays  and  Eloquence  of  the  British  Senate; 
Sketches  and  Essays ;  Macaulay,  Essay  on  Burke ;  W.  Wilson,  Afere 
Literature  (Interpreter  of  English  History) ;  A.  J.  George,  ed.  Burke's 
American  Orations. 

WILLIAM   COWPER 

In  Cowper  and  Burns  the  new  movement  received  its  second  great 
impulse.  These  poets  wrought  at  their  tasks,  each  unconscious  of  the 
existence  of  the  other,  until  one  had  published  the  Task,  and  the  other 
the  first  edition  of  his  poems.  The  one  in  the  dewy  meadows  of 
Buckinghamshire,  and  the  other  on  the  Ayrshire  hills,  saw  Nature  as 
she  had  not  been  seen  since  the  time  of  Chaucer,  — in  all  her  freshness 
and  beauty.  Cowper's  life  was  in  many  ways  a  sad  one,  and  yet  it  is 
through  him  that  the  religious  element  unites  the  love  of  nature  and 
man  through  the  life  of  the  lower  animals  about  us.  With  birds  and 
beasts  Cowper  claimed  fraternity.  The  revolutionary  idea  of  the  unity 
of  man  was  thus  centred  in  the  God  of  man  and  nature. 

"  Nowhere  in  our  poetry  is  there  heard  a  finer  scorn  of  vanity,  ambi- 
tion, meanness;  nowhere  is  truth  more  nobly  exalted,  or  justice  more 
sternly  glorified.  His  tenderness  for  the  weak  and  poor  and  wronged 
is  as  sweet  as  his  hatred  of  oppression  is  strong."  —  S.  A.  Brooke. 

Biography  and  Criticism.  —  G.  Smith,  English  Men  of  Letters  ; 
W.  Bagehot,  Literary  Studies,  Vol.  I. ;  L.  Stephen,  Hours  in  a  Library, 
Vol.  III.;  G.  Dawson,  Biographical  Lectures ;  J.  C.  Shairp,  Poetic  Ln- 
terpretation  of  Nature  ;  S.  A.  Brooke,  Theology  in  the  English  Poets  ; 


644  NOTES:    GIBBON;  BLAKE 

Mrs.  Oliphant,  Literature  of  the  Eighteenth  Century;  W.  Minto,  Litera- 
ture of  the  Georgian  Era  ;  Hazlitt,  Lectures  on  the  English  Poets. 

EDWARD  GIBBON 

Prose  now  becomes  the  medium  through  which  the  life  of  the  past 
is  made  real,  and,  in  the  hands  of  Gibbon,  the  greatest  master  of  his- 
torical literature  of  the  century,  it  attains  distinct  literary  character. 
Gibbon  is  an  excellent  illustration  of  those  characteristics  which  Senator 
Hoar  gives  as  those  of  a  great  historian :  "  He  must  be  capable  of  seeing 
clearly  the  great  forces  which  determine  the  currents  of  human  affairs; 
he  must  have  the  profound  judgment  and  the  insight  of  the  phi- 
losopher; he  must  have  the  imagination  of  the  poet,  idealizing  the 
national  history  with  which  he  deals;  he  must  have  the  artist's  gift  of 
portraiture." 

"  Gibbon  abated  his  pretensions  as  a  philosopher,  was  content  to 
attempt  some  picture  of  the  thing  acted  —  of  the  great  pageant  of 
history  —  and  succeeded."  —  Augustine  Birrell. 

"  It  was  at  Rome  in  1 764,  while  musing  amid  the  ruins  of  the  Capi- 
tol, that  the  idea  of  writing  his  book  arose  in  his  mind,  and  his  con- 
ception of  the  work  was  that  of  an  artist."  —  S.  A.  Brooke. 

Biography  and  Criticism. —  E.  Gosse,  Eighteenth  Century  Litera- 
ture ;  Autobiography^  with  Essay,  by  W.  D.  Howells;  R.  E.  Prothero, 
Letters  of  Gibbon;  J.  C.  Morison,  English  Men  of  Letters ;  W.  Bage- 
hot.  Literary  Studies,  Vol.  II. ;  A.  Birrell,  Res  Judicata ;  H.  Rogers, 
Biographies  of  Illustrious  Men. 

WILLIAM  BLAKE 

Blake,  the  poet,  painter,  printer,  and  publisher,  combines  elements 
which  make  him  unique  among  the  men  of  his  time.  He  was  the  first 
poet  of  child  life,  and  his  work  is  fresh  and  strong  with  the  angel  music 
of  babyhood.  He  never  attempted  complex  problems,  but  forever  gave 
himself  to  reflecting  with  grace  and  simplicity  the  efi^ects  of  beauty 
which  impress  the  untutored  child.  He  was  "  a  being  all  sensitiveness 
and  lyric  passion,  and  delicate  aerial  mystery." 

"  He  possessed  in  a  rare  degree  the  secret  by  which  the  loveliness  of 
a  scene  can  be  arrested  and  registered  in  a  line  of  verse,  and  he  often 
displays  a  faultless  choice  of  language,  and  the  finest  sense  of  poetic 
melody."  —  Comyns  Carr. 


NOTES:  BURNS;   WORDSWORTH;  COLERIDGE    645 

Biography  and  Criticism.  —  W.  M.  Rossetti,  Memoir  in  Blak^s 
Poetical  Works;  C.  Patmore,  Principle  in  Art;  C.  Carr,  Ward^s 
English  Poets,  Vol.  III.;  Vida  Scudder,  Life  of  the  Spirit  in  Modern 
English  Poetry. 

ROBERT  BURNS 

In  simplicity,  spontaneity,  passion,  and  pathos — the  absolute  spirit 
of  poetry — Burns  and  Blake  have  never  been  surpassed.  Burns  was 
the  poet  of  the  toiling  multitude.  He  could  laugh  with  those  who 
laughed,  and  shed  tears  with  those  in  sorrow.  His  sympathies  were 
universal  as  the  atmosphere  and  sunshine.  By  revealing  a  womanly 
tenderness  for  all  of  God's  creatures,  Burns  made  poetry  reflect  as  never 
before  the  religion  of  Christ.  His  scorn  of  hypocrisy  and  littleness  led 
him  into  extremes  perhaps,  but  this  was  to  be  preferred  to  the  laissez 
faire  method  of  many  of  his  time. 

"  Not  Latimer,  not  Luther,  struck  more  telling  blows  against  false 
theology  than  did  this  brave  singer.  The  Confession  of  Augsburg,  the 
Declaration  of  Independence,  the  French  Rights  of  Man,  are  not  more 
weighty  documents  in  the  history  of  freedom  than  the  songs  of  Burns." 
—  Emerson. 

Biography  and  Criticism.  —  J.  C.  Shairp,  English  Men  of  Letters; 
Poetic  Interpretation  of  Nature  ;  J.  S.  Blackie,  Great  Writers;  Setoun, 
Famous  Scots  Series;  S.  A.  Brooke,  Theology  in  the  English  Poets; 
Emerson,  Miscellanies ;  Carlyle,  Essay  on  Burns  ;  C.  Kingsley,  Liter- 
ary Essays;  Mrs.  Oliphant,  Literary  History  of  England,  Vol.  I.; 
G.  Saintsbury,  Literature  of  the  Nineteenth  Century;  Select  Poems  of 
Robert  Burns,  edited  by  A.  J.  George. 

WORDSWORTH  AND  COLERIDGE 

Natural  and  beautiful  was  the  association  of  Wordsworth  and  Cole- 
ridge, and  the  history  of  our  literature  has  nothing  more  interesting  and 
suggestive  than  the  friendship  of  these  men.  The  circumstances  under 
which  this  love  was  fostered  and  sustained,  and  in  consequence  of  which 
each  attained  heights  from  which  has  been  shed  ever-enduring  radiance, 
are  worthy  of  frequent  repetition.  The  main  impulse  to  that  poetry  and 
criticism,  which  has  been  the  most  stimulating  and  productive  "  in  its 
application  of  ideas  to  life,  in  its  natural  magic  and  moral  profundity," 


646      NOTES:    WORDSWORTH  AND  COLERIDGE 

was  the  creation  of  this  friendship.  It  created  that  little  volume,  the 
Lyrical  Ballads,  which  has  exerted  a  greater  influence  on  English 
literature  than  has  any  other  single  volume. 

Coleridge  produced  all  of  his  poetry,  which  is  of  the  first  order, 
directly  under  the  influence  of  Wordsworth.  It  is  to  be  regretted  that 
no  adequate  answer  to  the  question,  "  What  was  the  reciprocal  influ- 
ence of  these  men  upon  each  other?"  has  ever  been  given.  We  may 
believe  that  each  evoked  the  best  in  the  other,  that  Wordsworth  gained 
no  less  than  Coleridge  by  the  friendship. 

"  Coleridge  was  the  ivy,"  says  Mr.  Alois  Brandl,  "  which  at  last  found 
the  oak  on  which  it  could  lean  and  unfold  its  luxuriance.  But  with 
him  the  act  of  twining  and  climbing  was  more  important  than  the 
result;   with  Wordsworth  the  result  was  the  chief  thing." 

As  Coleridge  was  one  of  the  first  to  reveal  certain  aspects  of  external 
nature,  so  was  he  the  first  to  seize  upon  those  principles  of  relationship 
between  thought  and  action,  spirit  and  form,  which  determine  the  ethi- 
cal and  aesthetic  value  of  verse  and  prose.  He  was  our  first  great 
philosophical  critic. 

P.  405,  1.  105.  The  Zoili.  Zoilus  was  a  Greek  rhetorician,  called 
Homeromastix,  Scourge  of  Homer,  from  his  severe  criticisms  on  that 
poet. 

"  In  this,  I  conceive,  lies  Wordsworth's  transcendent  power,  that  the 
ideal  light  he  sheds  is  a  true  light;  and  the  more  ideal  it  is,  the  more 
true."  —  J.  C.  Shairp. 

"  Of  Coleridge's  best  verses,  I  venture  to  affirm  that  the  world  has 
nothing  like  them,  and  can  never  have."  —  A.  C.  Swinburne. 

Biography  and  Criticism.  —  Wordsworth:  W.  Knight,  Life  of 
Wordsworth,  3  vols.;  F.  W.  Myers,  English  Men  of  Lellers ;  S.  A. 
Brooke,  Theology  in  the  English  Poets ;  Shairp,  Studies  in  Poetry  and 
Philosophy ;  E.  Dowden,  French  Rez'olution  on  English  Literature  ; 
New  Studies  in  Literature ;  H.  N.  Hudson,  Studies  on  Words^vorth : 
De  Vere,  Essays  Chiefly  on  Poetry ;  R.  H.  Hutton,  Literary  Essays  ; 
Arnold,  Essays  in  Criticism,  2d  Series;  W.  Pater,  Appreciations; 
R.  Noel,  Essays  on  Poetry  ;  F.  W.  Robertson,  Lectures  and  Addresses  ; 
W.  Bagehot,  Literary  Studies  ;  De  Quincey,  Literary  Criticism. 
Coleridge :  H.  D.  Traill,  English  Men  of  Letters ;  A.  Brandl,  Cole- 
ridge;  H.  Caine,  Great  Writers;  J.  D.  Campbell,  Life  of  Coleridge ; 


NOTES:   SCOTT  647 

W.  Pater,  Appreciations  ;  J.  C.  Shairp,  Studies  in  Poetry  arid  Philoso- 
phy ;  L.  Stephen,  Hours  in  a  Library,  Vol.  III. ;  S.  A.  Brooke, 
Theology  in  the  English  Poets;  De  Quincey,  Literary  Reminiscences. 

SIR   WALTER  SCOTT 

Together  with  the  democratic  movement  in  literature  and  life  there 
came  the  Mediaeval  Revival  which  took  two  directions:  art,  resulting 
in  the  romanticism  of  Scott;  and  religion,  resulting  in  the  Oxford  move- 
ment under  Newman. 

Scott  was  born  in  literary  Edinburgh,  but  on  account  of  physical 
infirmity  he  was  early  taken  to  the  farm  of  his  paternal  grandfather  at 
Sandyknovve,  on  the  slopes  of  Smailholm  crags.  At  the  summit  of  the 
crags  stood  the  grim  old  sentinel,  Smailholm  tower,  guarding  the  Bor- 
derland, where  "  every  field  has  its  battle  and  every  rivulet  its  song." 
Not  far  away  was  the  venerable  Abbey  of  Dryburgh,  the  Eildons,  and 
the  stretches  of  Lammermoor,  Melrose,  "  like  some  tall  rock  with  lichens 
gay,"  almost  encircled  by  the  Tweed;  while  the  vales  of  Ettrick  and 
Yarrow,  fragrant  with  song  and  ballad,  could  be  seen  in  the  dis- 
tance. 

Such  were  the  sights  that  fed  the  wandering  eyes  of  Scott's  infancy 
and  boyhood,  while  his  ear  was  trained  to  ballad,  song,  and  story  by 
the  grandmother  and  her  auld  gudeman.  His  aunt  fired  his  imagina- 
tion by  the  tales  of  Jamie  Telfer,  Wat  of  Harden,  wight  Willie,  and  by 
the  old  ballads.  "  Hardiknute,"  says  Scott,  "was  the  first  poem  I  ever 
learnt,  and  the  last  I  shall  ever  forget."  From  such  influences  came 
the  splendid  verse  and  prose  of  the  great  magician. 

"  Others  can  name  the  plates  of  a  coat  of  armour  more  learnedly 
than  he,  but  he  made  men  wear  them.  He  put  living  men  under  his 
castled  roofs,  living  men  into  his  breastplates  and  taslets."  —  A.  Lang. 

Biography  and  Criticism.  —  R.  H.  Hutton,  English  Men  of  Letters; 
Prof  Yonge,  Great  IVriters;  G.  Saintsbury,  Nineteenth  Century  Litera- 
ture ;  Hunnewell,  Za«(^/5  of  Scott ;  Q,2s\^\g,  Miscellanies ;  L.Stephen, 
Lfours  in  a  Library ;  J.  C.  Shairp,  Aspects  of  Poetry ;  A.  Lang,  Letters 
to  Dead  Authors  ;  Essays  in  L.ittle  ;  W.  J.  Dawson,  Makers  of  Alodern 
English;  R.  H.  Hutton,  Contemporary  Thought  and  Jhinkers,  Vol. 
II.;  Sainte-Beuve,  Essays;  A.  Q.  Couch,  Adventures  in  Criticism; 
Hazlitt,  The  Spirit  of  the  Age. 


648  NOTES:  LANDOR:  LAMB 

WALTER   SAVAGE   LANDOR 

Landor  was  a  Greek  in  spirit,  a  classical  writer  in  an  age  of  romance, 
and  he  offers  marked  contrast  to  Scott,  the  great  romancer.  In  roman- 
tic writing  objects  are  seen  in  detail  and  in  an  atmosphere  of  varying 
cloud  and  sunshine;  in  classic,  every  idea  is  presented  as  plainly  and 
simply  as  possible,  and  is  almost  devoid  of  color.  Romantic  writing  is 
full  of  movement,  is  democratic  in  spirit;  classic  is  characterized  by 
repose,  and  is  aristocratic,  revealing  the  depth  and  serenity  of  the  soul. 

Landor  has  been  less  read  than  his  romantic  brothers,  but  his  influ- 
ence has  been  great,  and  his  work  has  been  warmly  praised  by  the 
judicious  few.     In  an  age  of  diffuseness,  when  the  newspaper  and  the 
periodical  usurp  the  place  of  books,  it  is  well  to  read  Landor. 
"  Through  the  trumpet  of  a  child  of  Rome 
Rang  the  pure  music  of  the  flutes  of  Greece." 

Landor  said:  "I  shall  dine  late;  but  the  dining-room  will  be  well 
lighted,  and  the  guests  few  and  select." 

"  With  all  his  remoteness,  I  can  think  of  no  author  who  has  oftener 
brimmed  my  eyes  with  tears  of  admiration  or  sympathy.  He  has 
uttered  more  wisdom  on  such  topics  of  life  and  thought  as  interested 
or  occurred  to  him  than  is  to  be  found  outside  of  Shakespeare." 
—  Lowell. 

Biography  and  Criticism.  —  Forster,  Life  of  Landor ;  S.  Colvin, 
English  Men  of  iMUrs  ;  Lowell,  Latest  Literary  Essays  ;  E.  Dowden, 
Studies  on  Literature ;  L.  Stephen,  Hours  in  a  Library,  Vol.  II.;  A. 
De  Vere,  Essays,  Vol.  II.;  E.  C.  Stedman,  Victorian  Poets;  Mrs.  Oli- 
phant,  Literary  History  of  England ;  G.  Saintsbury,  Nineteenth  Century 
Literature ;  De  Quincey,  Literary  Criticism. 

CHARLES   LAMB 

There  are  some  men  whom  we  admire  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  they 
move  in  a  world  quite  apart  from  that  of  our  own  joys  and  sorrows; 
there  are  others  whom  we  love  because  they  are  touched  with  the  feel- 
ing of  our  infirmities.  To  the  latter  class  belonged  Charles  Lamb. 
His  life  was  the  saddest,  sweetest,  tenderest,  and  most  heroic  to  be 
found  in  the  annals  of  English  letters.  The  story  of  Charles  and  Mary 
Lamb  is  the  story  of  a  brother's  love  and  sacrifice;    that  of  William 


NOTES:   LAMB;   HAZLITT  649 

and  Dorothy  Wordsworth  is  one  of  mutual  helpfulness;  but  that  of 
Cowper  and  Mary  Unwin  is  one  of  woman's  sacrifice  under  conditions 
similar  to  that  of  the  Lambs.  Such  revelations  are  more  convincing 
evidences  of  Christianity  than  all  the  treatises.  It  is  well  to  know  the 
tragedy  in  Lamb's  life,  for  under  its  pressure  he  gave  out  his  sweetest 
fragrance,  his  most  bewitching  humor,  his  mad  fun  and  fooling. 

P.  426, 1.  43.     lene  tormentum.    Mild  torture. 
P.  436,  1.  152.   mundus  edibilis.     Kingdom  of  things  eatable. 
P.  436, 1.  153.  princeps  obsoniorum.    The  chief  of  victuals. 
P.  437, 1.  157.   amor  immunditi£e.     Love  of  uncleanness. 

"  In  his  subtle  capacity  for  enjoying  the  more  refined  points  of  earth, 
of  human  relationship,  he  could  throw  the  gleam  of  poetry  or  humor 
on  what  seemed  common  or  threadbare;  has  a  care  for  sighs  and  the 
weary,  humdrum  preoccupations  of  very  weak  people,  dowii  to  their 
little  pathetic  '  gentilities '  even ;  while,  in  the  purely  human  temper, 
he  can  write  of  death  almost  like  Shakespeare." — Walter  Pater. 

Biography  and  Criticism.  —  A.  Ainger,  English  Men  of  Letters ; 
Letters  of  Charles  Lamb  ;  G.  Saintsbury,  Nineteenth  Century  Litera- 
ture;  A.  Birrell,  Res  JudicatiE ;  Obiter  Dicta,  Vol.  II.;  W.  Pater, 
Appreciations ;  G.  Dawson,  Biographical  Lectures  ;  De  Quincey,  Bio- 
graphical Essays;  Mrs.  Oliphant,  Literary  History  of  England; 
P.  Anton,  England^s  Essayists. 

WILLIAM   HAZLITT 

It  should  be  considered  a  great  commendation  of  any  man  to  be 
called  the  friend  of  Lamb,  Wordsworth,  Coleridge,  and  De  Quin- 
cey. Hazlitt  was  thus  honored  in  virtue  of  those  splendid  literary 
tastes  and  perceptions  which  were  a  consuming  passion,  and  which 
belong  to  the  "  Catholic  Apostolic  Church  of  Literature."  It  is  to  the 
establishment  of  the  great  Reviews,  —  The  Quarterly,  the  New  Review, 
Blackioood'' s,  and  the  Edinburgh  Review,  —  that  we  owe  the  best  pro- 
ductions in  the  critical  and  general  essay.  In  criticism  Hazlitt  belongs 
to  the  school  of  Coleridge  and  De  Quincey,  and  while  at  times  he 
lacks  the  balance  of  the  greatest,  yet  his  work  on  the  whole  is  charac- 
terized by  insight  and  a  generous  recognition  of  the  best.  Lamb  said 
that  he  was  a  great  authority  when  he  praised.  Shakespearean  criti- 
cism began  in  England  with  Coleridge  and  Hazlitt,  and  has  never 


650      NOTES:  HAZLITT;  HUNT;  DE  QUINCEY 

attained  greater  heights  than  with  them.  Hazlitt's  general  essays  are 
even  more  interesting  than  his  criticisms,  for  in  them  we  find  less  of 
his  peculiar  limitations.  In  many  respects  they  are  as  admirable  as 
those  of  Addison. 

"The  same  literary  qualities  mark  all  his  writings.  ...  If  he  is  not 
a  great  rhetorician,  if  he  aims  at  no  gorgeous  effects  of  complex  har- 
mony, he  has  yet  an  eloquence  of  his  own."  —  Leslie  Stephen. 

Biography  and  Criticism.  —  G.  Saintsbury,  Nineteenth  Century 
Literature;  Essays  on  English  Literature;  A.  Birrell,  Hes  Judicata ; 
L.  Stephen,  Hours  in  a  Library,  Vol.  II. ;  De  Quincey,  Literary  Criti- 
cism  ;  Mrs.  Oliphant,  Literary  History  of  England. 

LEIGH   HUNT 

Among  the  distinguished  literary  men  who  graced  the  close  of  last 

century  and  the   first  half  of  this,  not  the  least  interesting  is  Leigh 

Hunt,  the  "  Ariel  of  Criticism,"  as  he  was  often  called.     He  holds  his 

position  by  virtue  of  his  prose,  and  yet  he  wrote  verse  which  in  a  time 

of  less  distinction  would  have  been  considered  of  no  mean  order. 

Lamb  alludes  to  his  literary  activity  in  the  periodical,  the  Lndicator,  as 

follows :  — 

"  Wit,  poet,  proseman,  party  man,  translator, 

Hunt,  thy  best  title  yet  is  '  Indicator.'  " 

As  was  to  be  expected  from  a  man  who  had  as  passionate  a  love  of 
beauty  as  Keats,  the  most  of  his  criticism  is  aesthetic. 

"  For  most  people  a  true  opinion  persuasively  stated  is  of  much  more 
consequence  than  the  most  elaborate  logical  justification  of  it;  and  it 
is  this  that  makes  Leigh  Hunt's  criticism  such  excellent  good  reading.'* 
—  George  Saintsbury. 

Biography  and  Criticism.  —  G.  Saintsbury,  N'ineteenth    Century 
Literature;  Essays  in  English   Literature;   C.  Monkhouse,  English 
IVriters ;  C.  Clarke,  /Recollections  of  Writers;  Hawthorne,   Our   Old . 
Home ;   Hazlitt,  The  Spirit  of  the  Age ;  Mrs.  Oliphant,  Literary  His- 
tory of  England. 

THOMAS   DE   QUINCEY 

With  De  Quincey  we  are  still  in  the  charmed  circle  of  that  splendid 
fraternity  of  artists  in  prose  and  verse.     The  chief  distinction  of  the 


NOTES:  DE  QUINCEY;  BYRON  65 1 

London  Magazine  in  the  twenties  was  that  it  gave  to  the  world  the 
inimitable  Essays  of  Elia  and  De  Quincey's  startling  dream  fantasies, 
The  Confessions  of  an  English  Opium-EaUr.  After  his  settlement  at 
the  Lakes  he  became  a  valiant  defender  of  that  despised  "  Lake  School," 
of  which  Wordsworth  was  the  arch  heretic  in  revolt  against  the  ac- 
credited literary  creed  of  the  day.  Lamb,  Hazlitt,  and  Hunt  paid 
much  less  attention  to  beauty  of  form  than  to  truth  and  seriousness  of 
subject,  but  with  De  Quincey  the  art  of  felicitous  imaginative  splendor 
of  rhythmic  form  —  a  revelation  of  corresponding  splendor  of  thought 
which  creates  style  —  reached  its  highest  manifestation.  It  is  a  cause 
of  pride  that  Americans  were  the  first  to  conceive  the  idea  of  putting 
the  150  magazine  articles  of  De  Quincey  into  permanent  form.  It  is 
not  the  only  instance  of  our  recognition  of  the  value  of  the  British 
article  before  it  was  praised  at  home.  The  sixteen  volumes  are  full  of 
the  keenest  intellectual  perception, — exact,  penetrative,  analytic.  They 
are  never  dull,  because  they  are  lighted  up  with  a  playful  humor  and 
fun-loving  fancy  not  at  all  incompatible  with  passion  and  pathos. 

"  A  great  deal  of  De  Quincey's  best  and  most  characteristic  writing 
is  in  the  stately  and  elaborate  splendour,  of  prolonged  wheeling  and 
soaring,  as  distinct  from  the  style  of  crackle  and  brief  glitter,  of  chirp 
and  short  flight."  —  Masson. 

Biography  and  Criticism.  —  D.  Masson,  English  Men  of  Letters  ; 
L.  Stephen,  Hours  in  a  Library,  Vol.  I.;  Mrs.  Oliphant,  Literary  His- 
tory of  England ;  W.  Minto,  Characteristics  of  English  Prose  Style; 
P.  Anton,  England^ s  Essayists. 

LORD   BYRON 

Fate  has  not  dealt  kindly  with  Byron,  for  it  has  led  him  from  the 
extreme  of  adulation  to  the  extreme  of  detraction;  and  it  is  far  better 
to  be  seated  in  the  mean;  "  Superfluity  comes  sooner  by  white  hairs, 
but  competency  lives  longer."  For  a  time  Byron  was  the  only  star  in 
the  ascendant;  Wordsworth  was  but  a  mere  rushlight.  But  our  pur- 
pose in  reading  should  not  be  to  set  poet  against  poet,  rather  to  find 
the  excellences  of  each.  B)rron's  life  was  a  sad  one,  and  he  is  entitled 
to  our  sympathy  from  the  first :  — 

"  What's  done  we  partly  may  compute, 
But  know  not  what's  resisted" 


652  NOTES:  BYRON;   SHELLEY 

As  we  should  expect  in  a  man  "  proud  as  Lucifer  and  beautiful  as 
Apollo,"  the  personal  note  in  Byron  is  supreme.  It  is  the  note  of  a 
struggling  Titan's  tempest-anger,  tempest-mirth ;  and  yet  his  best  work 
reached  the  very  pinnacle  of  poetic  glory.  He  has  the  distinction  of 
having  made  English  letters  appreciated  in  Europe. 

"  Along  with  his  astounding  power  and  passion,  he  had  a  strong  and 
deep  sense  of  what  is  beautiful  in  nature  and  for  what  is  beautiful  in 
human  action  and  suffering."  —  Arnold, 

Biography  and  Criticism.  —  R.  Noel,  English  Writers  ;  Gait,  Life 
of  Byron  ;  J.  Nichol,  English  Men  of  Letters  ;  G.  Saintsbury,  Litera- 
ture of  the  Nineteenth  Century;  R.  H.  Hutton,  Literary  Essays ; 
Arnold,  Essays  in  Criticism,  2d  Series;  A.  Lang,  Letters  to  Dead 
Authors;  W.  J.  Dawson,  Makers  of  Modern  English;  R.  Noel,  Essays 
on  Poets ;  E.  P.  Whipple,  Essays  and  Reviews,  Vol.  I.;  C.  Kingsley, 
Essays ;  J.  Morley,  Miscellanies,  Vol.  I. 

PERCY  BYSSHE  SHELLEY 

Byron  was  forever  struggling  against  himself,  Shelley  against  the 
forces  of  his  environment;  and  as  he  could  not  change  them,  he  set 
himself  in  open  revolt  against  them.  He  allied  himself  with  the 
French  Revolution,  as  did  Wordsworth,  but  with  results  as  different 
as  his  temperament  was  different  from  that  of  Wordsworth.  Arnold's 
representation  of  him  as  a  "  beautiful  and  ineffectual  angel,  beating  in 
the  void  his  luminous  wings  in  vain,"  reveals  that  phase  of  his  life 
which  was  most  prominent,  and  yet  it  needs  to  be  supplemented  by 
that  other  phase  of  his  life  in  which  he  created  those  beautiful  poems 
full  of  the  lyrical  cry,  of  a  passionate  love  of  nature,  and  of  the  magic 
of  style. 

"  Shelley  is  probably  the  English  writer  who  has  achieved  the  highest 
successes  in  pure  lyric,  whether  of  an  elaborate  and  antiphonal  order, 
or  of  that  which  springs  in  a  stream  of  soaring  music  straight  from  the 
heart."  —  Edmund  Gosse. 

Biography  and  Criticism.  —  J.  A.  Symonds,  English  Men  of  Let- 
ters;  W.  Sharp,  Great  Writers  ;  E.  Dowden,  Life  of  Shelley ;  Studies 
in  Literature ;  D.  Masson,  Wordszuorth,  Shelley,  and  Keats;  J.  C. 
Shairp,  Aspects  of  Poetry ;  A.  Lang,  Letters  to  Dead  Authors ;   S.  A. 


NOTES:   KEATS;    CARLYLE  653 

Brooke,  Introduction  to  Selections  from  Shelley  ;  G,  Saintsbury,  Nine- 
teenth Century  Literature;  L.  Stephen,  Hours  in  a  Library,  Vol.  III.; 
R.  Noel,  Essays  on  Poets;  Arnold,  Essays  in  Criticism,  2d  Series. 

JOHN   KEATS 

Keats's  life  was  too  short  for  his  faculties  to  ripen  into  the  rich  fruit 
which  they  promised,  and  yet  the  luxurious  blossoms  yielded  a  fragrance 
which  has  an  immortal  charm.  He  was  a  true  Elizabethan,  intoxicated 
with  the  passion  for  beauty.  He  said  that  what  the  imagination  seized 
as  Beauty  must  be  Truth.  "  The  Eternal  Being,  the  Principle  of  Beauty, 
and  the  Memory  of  Great  Men"  he  worshipped;  but  to  the  public  he 
would  not  even  bow.  "  I  never  wrote  a  single  line  of  poetry,"  says  he, 
"  with  the  least  shadow  of  thought  about  their  opinion."  Keats  reached 
truth  through  beauty,  as  Browning  reached  beauty  through  truth.  The 
atmosphere  of  Keats's  best  work  is  serene,  balmy,  and  refreshing,  as 
exhilarating  as  that  of  the  loveliest  English  morning  in  May. 

"  By  virtue  of  his  feeling  for  beauty  and  of  his  perception  of  the 
vital  connection  of  beauty  with  truth,  Keats  accomplished  so  much  in 
poetry  that  in  one  of  the  two  great  modes  by  which  poetry  interprets, 
in  the  faculty  of  naturalistic  interpretation,  in  what  we  call  natural 
magic,  Keats  ranks  with  Shakespeare.  No  one  else  in  English  poetry, 
save  Shakespeare,  has  in  expression  quite  the  fascinating  felicity  of 
Keats,  his  perfection  of  loveliness."  —  ARNOLD. 

Biography  and  Criticism.  —  S.  Colvin,  English  Men  of  Letters; 
W.  M.  Rossetti,  Great  Writers ;  R.  M.  Milnes,  Letters  and  Literary 
Remains ;  G.  Saintsbury,  Nineteenth  Century  Literature ;  D.  Masson, 
lVords7oorth,  Shelley,  and  Keats;  E.  Gosse,  Critical  Kit  Kats ; 
W.  Watson,  Excursions  in  Criticism ;  Arnold,  Essays  in  Criticism, 
2d  Series;  R.  Noel,  Essays  on  Poets ;  C.  Patmore,  Principle  in  Art ; 
H.  W.  Mabie,  Essays  in  Literary  Interpretation. 

THOMAS  CARLYLE 

The  life  and  work  of  Carlyle  fall  into  two  periods.  The  first 
period,  extending  until  1834,  when  he  settles  in  London,  may  be  called 
a  sort  of  Preparatio  Evangelica.  In  it  he  wrote  his  great  works  in 
interpretation  of  literature;  in  it,  too,  his  life  was  quickened  and 
enriched  by  the  friendship  of  two  rare  souls,  —  Goethe  and  Emerson. 


654  NOTES:    CARLYLE;  MACAU  LAY 

The  second  period  is  that  of  Sturm  und  Drang — storm  and  stress 
—  in  which  he  wore  himself  out,  body,  mind,  and  soul,  in  the  herculean 
task  of  cleansing  the  life  and  thought  of  his  time  from  the  sordid  and 
the  selfish.  His  was  the  voice  of  one  crying  in  the  wilderness,  and  this 
was  his  cry :  "  As  the  highest  Gospel  was  a  Biography,  so  is  the  life  of 
every  good  man  an  indubitable  Gospel,  and  preaches  to  the  eye,  and 
heart,  and  whole  man,  man  is  heaven-born  —  not  the  thrall  of  circum- 
stances, but  the  victorious  subduer  thereof"  His  first,  and  perhaps 
greatest,  critical  work  was  upon  a  brother  Scot  —  Burns.  By  him 
Burns  received  his  first  sympathetic  interpretation. 

Again  it  is  worthy  of  note  that  America  was  the  first  to  recognize 
the  value  of  British  literary  work.  Through  Emerson,  Carlyle's  works 
were  published  here  before  they  were  at  home.  At  the  time  when 
Sartor  was  unpopular  in  England,  Carlyle  wrote  to  his  wife :  "  Litera- 
ture still  a  mystery;  nothing  paying.  On  the  other  hand,  an  order 
from  America  to  send  a  copy  of  the  magazine, '  So  long  as  there  was 
anything  of  Carlyle's  in  it.' "  This  was  the  cause  of  Carlyle's  continu- 
ing in  literature. 

"  Carlyle  has  surpassingly  powerful  qualities  of  expression,  reminding 
one  of  the  gifts  of  expression  of  the  great  poets  —  of  even  Shakespeare 
himself.  What  Emerson  so  admirably  says  of  Carlyle's  '  devouring 
eyes,  and  pourtraying  hand,'  '  those  thirsty  eyes,  those  portrait-eating, 
portrait-painting  eyes  of  thine,  those  fatal  perceptions,'  is  thoroughly 
true."  —  Arnold. 

Biography  and  Criticism.  —  J.  Nichol,  English  Men  of  Letters ; 
R.  Garnett,  Great  Writers ;  Carlyle,  Reminiscences ;  C.  E.  Norton, 
Correspondence  of  Carlyle  and  Emerson;  D.  Masson,  Edinbur^ 
Sketches  and  Memories;  Macpherson,  Eamous  Scots  Series;  R.  H. 
Hutton,  Modern  Guides  to  Thought  in  Af afters  of  Faith  ;  F.  Harrison, 
Early  Victorian  Literature;  J.  C.  Shairp,  Aspects  of  Poetry ;  Arnold, 
Addresses  in  America ;  L.  Stephen,  Hours  in  a  Library,  Vol.  III. ; 
J.  J.  Morley,  Miscellanies,  Vol.  I. 

THOMAS  BABINGTON  MACAULAY 

Macaulay  had  the  unusual  good  fortune  to  reach  at  a  bound  the  high- 
est step  in  the  ladder  of  fame.  The  critics  were  disturbed  because  he 
did  not  stop  to  show  them  his  passports,  and  they  at  once  began  to  call 


NOTES:  M AC  AULA  Y;  NEWMAN  655 

him  back,  but  their  shrill  notes  were  lost  in  the  torrents  of  popular 
acclaim.  He  made  his  debut  in  the  Edinburgh  Review  with  the 
famous  essay  on  Milton,  and  nothing  that  he  produced  later  quite 
equalled  it.  While  he  is  not  a  great  critic,  he  arouses  interest  in  his 
subject,  which  is  perhaps  more  important,  especially  with  young  read- 
ers, and  this  is  the  secret  of  his  continued  popularity.  The  contrasts 
between  Carlyle,  De  Quincey,  and  Macaulay  are  very  marked.  Carlyle 
is  a  great  poet,  muscular,  homely,  lurid;  De  Quincey  is  a  great  artist, 
incisive,  subtle,  brilliant;  Macaulay  is  a  great  reporter  of  affairs, 
aboundingly  picturesque  —  "a  symphony  in  purple  and  gold."  His 
art  was  not  evolved,  it  was  cast. 

P.  515,  1.  83.   mens  squa  in  arduis.    A  mind  serene  in  difficulties. 

"  Macaulay  is  a  glorified  journalist  and  reviewer,  who  brings  the 
matured  results  of  scholars  to  the  man  in  the  street,  in  a  form  that  he 
can  remember  and  enjoy,  when  he  could  not  make  use  of  a  merely 
learned  book." — Frederick  Harrison. 

Biography  and  Criticism.  —  G.  Trevelyan,  Macaulay s  Life  and 
Letters;  C.  Morrison,  English  Men  of  Letters  ;  L.  Stephen,  Hours  in  a 
Library,  Vol.  HI. ;  F.  Harrison,  Early  Victorian  Literature  ;  W.  Bage- 
hot,  Literary  Studies,  Vol.  II.;  G.  Saintsbury,  Nineteenth  Century  Lit- 
erature ;  Corrected  Lmpressions  ;  E.  P.  Whipple,  Essays  and  Reviews  ; 
J.  Morley,  Miscellanies,  Vol.  I. 

JOHN   HENRY   CARDINAL  NEWMAN 

Medisevalism  attracted  Scott  because  its  action,  its  picturesqueness, 
invigorated  the  imagination;  it  attracted  Newman  because  its  tradi- 
tions stimulated  speculation  and  casuistry. 

Cardinal  Newman  is  known  as  the  author  of  that  hymn  which 
breathes  the  most  sublime  faith,  the  calmest  resignation,  and  the  noblest 
sentiment  of  which  the  human  soul  is  capable.  Lead,  Kindly  Light  is 
one  of  the  most  inspiring  poems  of  the  Christian  Church,  — 

"  That  undisturbed  song  of  pure  concent." 

Newman's  work  reveals  him  as  one  of  the  great  masters  of  graceful, 
scholarly,  finished  prose.  It  is  individual;  it  has  charm,  and  this  is  the 
secret  of  its  power  to  interest.  No  writer  of  our  time  has  reflected  his 
mind  and  heart  in  his  work  as  has  he.     He  has  light  for  the  intellect, 


656  NOTES:  NEWMAN:    TENNYSON 

and  warmth  for  the  heart.  Arnold  gives  the  following  picture  of  the 
great  Oxford  preacher :  — 

"  Who  could  resist  the  charm  of  that  spiritual  apparition,  gliding  in 
the  dim  afternoon  light  through  the  aisles  of  St.  Mary's,  rising  into  the 
pulpit,  and  then,  in  the  most  entrancing  of  voices,  breaking  the  silence 
with  words  and  thoughts  which  were  a  religious  music — subtle,  sweet, 
mournful?  " 

P.  522, 1.  120.  TcrpdYMvos.  Four  square,  complete,  nil  admirari. 
To  find  nothing  wonderful. 

P.  523,  11.  122-124.  Felix  qui,  etc.  Virgil,  Georgics,  II.,  490-492: 
"  Happy  he  who  has  come  to  know  the  sequence  of  things,  and  is 
thus  above  all  fear,  master  of  the  dread  march  of  fate,  and  careless  of 
the  wild  noise  of  greedy  Acheron." 

"  The  charm  of  Dr.  Newman's  style  necessarily  baffles  dvcription; 
as  well  might  one  seek  to  analyze  the  fragrance  of  a  flower.  It  is  hard 
to  describe  charm."  —  Augustine  Birrell. 

Biography  and  Criticism. — Newman,  Apologia  fro  sua  Vita; 
R.  H.  Hutton,  Cardinal  iXewman ;  Modern  Guides  to  Thought  in 
Matters  of  Faith  ;  R.W.  Church,  The  Oxford  Movement ;  A.  Birrell, /?« 
JudicatiF  ;  Obiter  Dicta  ;  J.  C.  Shairp,  Aspects  of  Poetry  ;  L.  E.  Gates, 
Selections  from  Newman;  J.  Martineau,  Essays,  Vol.  I.;  J.Jacobs, 
George  Eliot,  Matthew  Arnold,  Browning,  Newman. 

ALFRED   LORD  TENNYSON 

Although  Tennyson  was  firom  the  first  a  master  of  melody  who  had 
a  wealth  of  "delicious  metres  and  rhythmic  susurrus,"  yet  half  a  century 
elapsed  before  the  simple  melodies  passed  into  the  deep-throated  music 
of  the  grand  march  in  the  Homeric  blank  verse.  The  sweet  singer  of 
the  early  years  in  the  century  became  in  these  later  years  the  "  Voice 
of  the  age,"  — 

"  Master  who  crown'st  our  immelodious  days 
With  flower  of  perfect  speech." 

The  simplicity,  devotion,  and  beauty  of  the  artist,  the  dignity,  strength, 
and  nobility  of  the  man;  the  personal  note  so  clear,  so  pure,  so  com- 
plex in  its  variety  of  tone  and  color  and  intellectual  conception;  the 
English  atmosphere  so  invigorating  in  its  power  to  heal  and  cleanse; 


NOTES:    TENNYSON;    THACKERAY  6$^ 

and  the  nineteenth-century  idea  so  rich  and  attractive  in  content  and 
extent,  —  these  are  the  things  to  be  found  in  the  poetry  of  Alfred 
Tennyson :  — 

"  Dow'r'd  with  the  Doric  grace,  the  Mantuan  mien, 
With  Arno's  depth  and  Avon's  golden  sheen. 
Singer  to  whom  the  singing  ages  climb  convergent." 
The  student  should  compare  the  lyrics  of  Tennyson  with  those  of 
Burns;   the  one  is  the  literary,  the  other  the  natural  song, 

"  Not  of  the  howling  dervishes  of  song. 

Who  craze  the  brain  with  their  delirious  dance, 

Art  thou,  O  sweet  historian  of  the  heart ! 
Therefore  to  thee  the  laurel  leaves  belong. 
To  thee  our  love  and  our  allegiance 

For  thy  allegiance  to  the  poet's  art."  —  Longfellow. 

Biography  and  Criticism.  —  H.  Tennyson,  Memoir  of  Alfred  Lord 
Tennyson ;  A.  Waugh,  Alfred  Lord  Tennyson ;  S.  A.  Brooke,  Ten- 
nyson :  His  Art  and  Relation  to  Modern  Life ;  H.  Van  Dyke,  The 
Poetry  of  Tennyson;  E.  Dowden,  Studies  in  Literature ;  R.  H. 
Hutton,  Literary  Essays;  G.  Napier,  Homes  and  Haunts  of  Alfred 
Tennyson ;  A,  T.  Ritchie,  Recollections  of  Tennyson,  Ruskin,  and 
Browning ;    F.  W.  Robertson,  Lectures  and  Addresses. 

WILLIAM   MAKEPEACE  THACKERAY 

We  have  alluded  to  the  rise  of  the  novel  in  the  Elizabethan  period 
and  its  history  until  the  time  of  Defoe.  It  then  passed  into  the 
hands  of  Richardson,  Fielding,  Sterne,  and  Johnson,  and  in  our  own 
century  reached  its  greatest  perfection  in  Scott,  Thackeray,  Dickens, 
Hawthorne,  and  George  Eliot.  Of  all  these  Thackeray  is  unquestion- 
ably the  great  master  in  the  art  of  English  prose.  His  powers  were 
exercised  in  a  greater  variety  of  works  than  were  those  of  any  of  his 
contemporaries,  —  burlesque  essay,  romance,  biography,  criticism  in 
prose  and  verse,  —  and  everywhere  his  literary  touch  is  sure  and  sound. 
From  authors  whose  works  reach  fifteen  or  more  volumes  we  must 
select,  and  there  can  be  no  mistake  in  selecting  from  Thackeray 
Vanity  Fair  and  the  English  Humorists  as  types  of  his  mighty  work. 
His  essay  {De  Finibus),  On  Conclusions  to  his  novels,  reveals  him  in  a 
characteristic  mood. 
2U 


658     NOTES:   THACKERAY;  DICKENS;  BROWNING 

"  Whenever  you  speak  for  yourself  and  speak  in  earnest,  how  magical, 
how  rare,  how  lonely  in  our  literature  is  the  beauty  of  your  sentences, 
" '  It  needs  heaven-sent  moments  for  this  skill.'  " 

—  Andrew  Lang. 
Biography  and  Criticism.  —  A.  Trollope,  English  Men  of  Letters  ; 
Merivale  and  Marzials,  Great  Writers ;  J.  T.  Fields,  Yesterdays  with 
Authors  ;  F.  Harrison,  Early  Victorian  Literature ;  D.  ls\2iS%o\\.,  British 
Novelists ;  A.  Lang,  Letters  to  Dead  Authors;  W.  A.  Raleigh,  The 
A^ovel;  G.  Saintsbury,  Corrected  Impressions ;  Nineteenth  Century 
Literature. 

CHARLES   DICKENS 

Some  of  the  critics  would  have  us  believe  that  Dickens  has  had  his 
day,  but  here  the  booksellers  have  a  word.  So  long  as  Dickens  is  a 
delightful  companion  at  our  firesides,  in  whose  presence  children  leave 
their  play  and  listen,  he  need  not  fear  the  critic,  for  love  will  keep  its 
own.  Thackeray  said  that  the  business  of  humor  was  to  awaken  and 
direct  our  love,  our  pity,  our  kindness,  our  scorn  for  imposture,  our 
tenderness  for  the  weak,  to  comment  on  the  actions  and  passions  of 
life,  to  be  the  week-day  preacher.  Dickens's  universal  sympathy  and 
his  unbounded  humor  bring  beauty,  joy,  and  sunshine  to  the  lowliest 
of  God's  creatures.  His  mission  was  to  heal  and  cleanse.  Then  let 
us  read  and  enjoy  Dickens  rather  than  discuss  him. 

"  He  caught  character,  so  far  as  it  could  be  caught,  in  a  glance  of 
the  eye,  as  no  other  Englishman  probably  ever  yet  caught  it.  There 
is  nothing  in  him  as  the  most  realistic  and  picturesque  of  describers  to 
equal  his  humor."  —  R.  H.  Hutton. 

Biography  and  Criticism. — W.  Ward,  English  Men  of  Letters,, 
Marzials,  Great  Writers;  G.  Saintsbury,  Nineteenth  Century  Litera- 
ture; A.  Lang,  Essays  in  Little  ;  J.  T.  Fields,  Yesterdays  with  Authors  ; 
R.  H.  Hutton,   Criticisms  on   Contemporary   Thought  and  Thinkers ; 

E.  P.  Whipple,  Literature  and  Life  ;  A.  Lang,  Letters  to  Dead  Authors  ; 

F.  Harrison,  Early  Victorian  Literature. 

ROBERT  BROWNING 

The  joyous,  fearless  activity  of  Browning,  the  noble  aspirations  of  his 
intellect  and  the  mighty  passions  of  his  heart,  the  steady  certainty  that 
God  and  man  are  one  in  kind,  render  him  the  most  distinctly  helpful 


NOTES:   BROWNING ;   ELIOT  659 

to  those  who  have  been  vexed  with  the  subtle  speculations  which  have 
abounded  in  our  scientific  age.  More  than  any  poet  of  modern  times 
he  has  that  intellectual  fearlessness  which  is  thoroughly  Greek;  he 
looks  unflinchingly  upon  all  that  meets  him,  and  he  apparently  cares 
not  for  consequences.  His  is  "  a  mind  forever  voyaging  through  strange 
seas  of  thought,  alone."  In  many  of  his  poems  we  find  united  the 
two  great  principles  which  lie  at  the  basis  of  all  his  best  work :  one, 
which  has  for  its  end,  knowledge;  the  other,  which  has  for  its  end, 
conduct.  The  first  is  Browning's  philosophy;  the  second  Browning's 
art.  There  are  many  who  delight  in  Browning's  intricate  thought,  — 
pure  exercise  of  the  mind,  — but  we  must  believe  that  he  contributed 
more  to  the  spiritual  movement  of  the  age  by  his  Saul,  Apparent  Fail- 
ure, Prospice,  Abt  Vogler,  etc.,  than  by  all  his  argumentative  verse. 
These  are  indeed  veritable  fountain-heads  of  spiritual  power. 

"  His  best  work,  the  work  which  will  last  when  the  noises  are  done, 
is  as  simple  as  it  is  sensuous  and  passionate;  and  it  is  entirely  original, 
out  of  the  overflowing  of  his  heart."  —  S.  A.  Brooke. 

Biography  and  Criticism.  —  Mrs.  S.  Orr,  Hana'book  to  the  Works  of 
Robert  Browning;  W.  Sharp,  Great  Writers ;  W.  Bagehot,  Literary 
Studies;  W.  J.  Dawson,  Makers  of  Modern  English;  E.  Berdoe, 
Browning'' s  Message  to  his  Times  ;  G.  W.  Cooke,  Poets  and  Problems  ; 
E.  C.  Stedman,  Victorian  Poets  ;  G.  Saintsbury,  Corrected  Impressions  ; 
H.  Jones,  Browning  as  a  Philosophic  and  Religious  Teacher  ;  H.  Corson, 
Introduction  to  Browning ;  W.  J.  Alexander,  Introduction  to  Brown- 
ing; Boston  Browning  Society,  Papers. 

GEORGE   ELIOT 

Be  an  artist  or  prepare  for  oblivion  is  the  stern  decree  of  Time.  No 
amount  of  knowledge,  no  critical  acumen,  can  be  substituted  for  that 
power  of  giving  pleasure  which  we  attribute  as  a  quality  of  creative 
work  and  call  beauty.  George  Eliot  (Marian  Evans)  was  a  systematic 
thinker,  a  careful  student,  a  master  of  human  passion;  but  above  all  she 
was  an  artist  of  superb  qualities  and  noble  aims.  Silas  Marner  is  an 
exquisite  study  in  light  and  shade,  —  in  contrasts  of  life;  Adam  Bede 
is  a  delightful  romance,  spontaneous,  cheerful,  sweet;  Romola  a  great 
drama,  and  The  Mill  on  the  Floss  is  a  revelation  of  the  author's  deepest 
life;  these  are  her  representative  works.     In  revealing  Nature  she  has 


66o  NOTES:   ELIOT;    CLOUGH 

done  for  the  English  Midlands  what  Scott  did  for  the  Highlands  of 
Scotland. 

P.  584, 1.  128.  Benedicat,  etc.  "May  Almighty  God  give  you  his 
blessing." 

"  George  Eliot's  works  are  primarily  works  of  art,  and  she  herself  is 
artist  as  much  as  she  is  teacher.  We  feel  in  reading  these  books  that 
we  are  in  the  presence  of  a  soul,  and  a  soul  which  has  had  a  history." 
—  Edward  Dowden. 

Biography  and  Criticism. — G.  Cross,  Life  of  George  Eliot;  O. 
Browning,  Great  Writers ;  G.  W.  Cooke,  George  Eliot;  F.  Harrison, 
Early  Victorian  Literature ;  R.  H.  Hutton,  Modern  Guides  to  Thought 
in  Matters  of  Faith  ;  E.  Dowden,  Studies  in  Literature  ;  L.  Stephen, 
Hours  in  a  Library,  Vol.  II.;  E.  Scherer,  Essays  in  English  Litera- 
ture, trans,  by  Saintsbury;  J.  Jacobs,  George  Eliot,  Matthew  Arnold, 
Browning,  Newman. 

ARTHUR  HUGH  CLOUGH 

Qough  and  Arnold,  the  apostles  of  culture,  were  both  distinguished 
sons  of  Rugby  and  Oxford ;  both  voiced  the  intellectual  unrest  caused 
by  the  Oxford  Movement  and  the  revelations  of  modern  science. 
Clough's  nature  was  that  of  a  scholar,  impressionable,  but  simple, 
strong,  wholesome;  and  his  search  for  truth  was  sincere  and  mahly. 
Sincerity  and  manliness  give  a  tonic  quality  to  all  he  wrote.  His 
poems  reveal  the  struggle,  at  times  agonizing,  and  the  religious  fervor 
which  made  his  life  at  once  sad  and  joyous, 

"  In  working  out  in  heart  and  brain 
The  problem  of  our  being  here."  * 

The  sights  and  sounds  of  nature  gave  him  ease  and  refreshment  from 
his  intellectual  quest.  The  choice  spirits  whom  he  attracted,  quite  as 
much  as  his  poetic  excellence,  reveal  the  manner  of  man  he  was.  He 
inspired  one  of  the  most  touching  and  graceful  elegies  in  the  language, 
Thyrsis.     It  reveals  much  that  is  intensely  biographical, 

"  The  music  of  thy  rustic  flute 
Kept  not  for  long  its  happy  country  tone; 

Lost  it  too  soon,  and  learnt  a  stormy  note 
Of  men  contention-tost,  of  men  who  groan. " 


NOTES:    CLOU  Gil;   RUSK  IN;   ARNOLD  66 1 

"The  massive  and  genial  sympathy  which  Qough  feels  with  the 
universal  instincts  of  human  life,  alike  religious  and  social,  is  the  first 
marked  feature  that  strikes  us  in  all  his  poems."  —  R.  H.  HuTTON. 

Biography  and  Criticism.  —  Qough,  Prose  Remaitis  ;  R.  H.  Hut- 
ton,  Essays,  Vol.  II.;  C.  Patmore,  Principle  in  Art ;  H.  W.  Mabie,  My 
Study  Fire,  Vol.  II. ;  W.  Bagehot,  Literary  S/uJies,  Vol.  I.;  V.  D.  Scud- 
der,  The  Life  of  the  Spirit  in  Modern  English  Poetry  ;  G.  Saintsbury, 
Nineteenth  Century  Literature  ;  J.  C.  Shairp,  Portraits  of  Friends. 

JOHN   RUSKIN 

Carlyle  and  Ruskin  are  the  two  prophets  of  the  century,  and  their 
cry  is,  "  sursuni  cor  da  !  "  Both  began  work  as  interpreters,  —  the  one 
of  literature  and  life,  the  other  of  nature  and  art,  —  and  both  gradually 
passed  from  critics  to  great  preachers  of  social  regeneration.  One 
sought  social  reform  as  a  basis  for  conduct,  the  other  as  a  basis  for 
beauty.  Ideas  of  conduct  and  ideas  of  beauty  comprise  the  whole  of 
life.  Ruskin's  prose  is  often  as  picturesque  and  rhythmic  as  Tennyson's 
verse.  He  possesses  the  eye  of  the  scientist,  the  imagination  of  the 
poet,  the  harmony  of  the  composer,  and  the  moral  earnestness  of  the 
preacher. 

"  The  more  one  reads  Ruskin,  the  more  one  feels  inclined  almost  to 
let  him  go  uncriticised,  to  vote  him  the  primacy  in  nineteenth  century 
prose  by  simple  acclamation,"  —  G.  Saintsbury. 

Biography  and  Criticism.  —  W.  G.  Collingwood,  Life  and  Works 
of  John  Ruskin  ;  J.  M.  Mather,  John  Ruskin  :  his  Life  and  Teach- 
ings;  A.  T.  Ritchie,  Records  of  Tennyson,  Ruskin,  and  Bro~ivning ; 
A.  H.  Japp,  Three  Great  Teachers  ;  C.  Waldstein,  The  Work  of  John 
Ruskin  ;  V.  D.  Scudder,  An  Introduction  to  the  Writings  of  John  Rus- 
kin ;  G.  Saintsbury,  Corrected  Impressions;  G.  W.  Cooke,  Poets'  and 
Problems ;  J.  Ruskin,  Praterita. 

MATTHEW  ARNOLD 

Arnold  has  done  for  literature  what  Ruskin  did  for  art.  By  means 
of  his  exquisite  creative  work  and  his  clear  and  steady  discernment  of 
the  best  that  has  been  thought  and  said  in  the  world,  —  in  a  word,  by 
his  study  of  perfection,  he  has  enriched  thought  and  quickened  feel- 


662  NOTES:  ARNOLD 

ing.  His  intellectual  activity  is  as  varied  and  unceasing  as  his  love 
is  strong  and  pure.  His  nature,  genial,  frank,  and  manly,  is  revealed 
in  poetry  of  elegance  and  power.  He  teaches  the  gospel  of  Words- 
worth —  that  we  need  shade  in  which  to  grow  ripe,  and  leisure  in 
which  to  grow  wise.  As  a  literary  critic  he  has  no  superior  in  the  art 
of  revealing  beauty,  of  stimulating  enjoyment  of  the  high  and  rare 
excellence  in  literature.  His  instinct  for  seizing  the  spirit  of  the  author 
and  embalming  it  in  the  amber  of  beautiful  phrase,  is  as  unfailing  as  his 
analysis  of  the  means  by  which  that  author  attained  distinction  in  form 
is  clear  and  sound.  As  a  writer  upon  morals  and  politics,  he  is  char- 
acterized by  the  spirit  of  "  sweetness  and  light,"  with  a  purpose  to 
make  reason  and  the  will  of  God  prevail.  The  results  of  his  work  are 
exceedingly  great. 

P.  619, 1.  70.    a  poetical  collection.     Ward's  English  Poets. 

"To  open  Arnold's  poems  is  to  escape  firom  a  heated  atmosphere 
and  a  company  not  wholly  free  from  offence,  from  loud-mouthed,  ran- 
dom-talking men,  into  a  well-shaded  retreat  which  seems  able  to  impart 
something  of  the  coolness  of  falling  water,  something  of  the  music  of 
rustling  trees."  —  Augustine  Birrell. 

"  With  a  myriad  minor  variations  and  adaptations,  poetry  in  England, 
and  therefore  prose,  is  still  what  it  became  when  Wordsworth  and 
Coleridge  remodelled  it  in  the  coombes  of  the  Quantocks."  —  Edmund 
GossE. 

Biography  and  Criticism.  —  Arnold,  Letters  ;  E.  C.  Stedman,  Vic- 
torian Poets;  R.  H.  Hutton,  Literary  Essays;  Clough,  Prose  Re- 
mains ;  A.  Birrell,  Pes  Judicata  ;  W,  J.  Dawson,  Makers  of  Modern 
English  ;  J.  Burroughs,  Lndoor  Studies  ;  G.  Saintsbury,  Corrected  Im- 
pressions ;  L.  E.  Gates,  Selections  from  Arnold;  J.  Jacobs,  George 
Eliot,  Matthew  Arnold,  Browning,  Newman. 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS  AND  NOTES 


Addison,  Joseph,  246,  638. 
Arnold,  Matthew,  607,  661. 
Bacon,  Francis,  156,  631. 
Ballads,  68,  627. 
Bible,  143,  631. 
Blake,  William,  358,  644. 
Browning,  Robert,  567,  658. 
Bunyan,  John,  199,  634. 
Burke,  Edmund,  325,  642. 
Burns,  Robert,  367,  645. 
Butler,  Samuel,  193,  634. 
Byron,  Lord,  465,  651. 
Carlyle,  Thomas,  498,  653. 
Chaucer,  Geoffrey,  i,  621. 
Clough,  Arthur  Hugh,  586,  660. 
Coleridge,   Samuel   Taylor,  396, 

645. 
Collins,  William,  305,  641. 
Covvper,  William,  336,  643. 
Defoe,  Daniel,  224,  636. 
De  Quincey,  Thomas,  454,  650. 
Dickens,  Charles,  554,  658. 
Dryden,  John,  209,  636. 
Eliot,  George  (Evans,  Marian), 

575.  659- 
Gibbon,  Edward,  347,  644. 
Goldsmith,  Oliver,  314,  642. 
Gray,  Thomas,  292,  641. 


Hazlitt,  William,  438,  649. 
Hooker,  Richard,  105,  629. 
Hunt,  Leigh,  445,  650. 
Johnson,  Samuel,  283,  640. 
Jonson,  Benjamin,  162,  632. 
Keats,  John,  488,  653. 
Lamb,  Charles,  425,  648. 
Landor,  Walter  Savage,  418,  648. 
Lyly,  John,  40,  624. 
Macaulay,     Thomas     Babington, 

510,  654. 
Malory,  Sir  Thomas,  19,  624. 
Marlowe,  Christopher,  iii,  629. 
Milton,  John,  173,  633. 
Newman,  John  Henry,  519,  655. 
Pope,  Alexander,  260,  639. 
Ruskin,  John,  597,  661. 
Scott,  Sir  Walter,  406,  647. 
Shakespeare,  William,  132,  630. 
Shelley,  Percy  Bysshe,  475,  652. 
Sidney,  Sir  Philip,  53,  625. 
Spenser,  Edmund,  90,  628. 
Swift,  Jonathan,  235,  637. 
Tennyson,  Alfred,  528,  656. 
Thackeray,   William   Makepeace, 

543.  657- 
Thomson,  James,  272,  639. 
Wordsworth,  William,  380,  645. 


663 


BOOKS  OF  GENERAL  REFERENCE 

Archer,  T.     The  Highway  of  Letters. 
Bascom,  J.     Philosophy  of  English  Literature. 
Bates,  C.  L.     The  English  Religious  Drama. 
Brooke,  S.  A.     English  Literature.     (Macmillan.) 
Brooke,  S.  A.     History  of  Early  English  Literature. 
Bullen.     England's  Helicon. 
Craik,  H.     English  Prose. 
Earle,  J.     English  Prose. 
Earle,  J.     Philosophy  of  the  English  Tongue. 
Fisher.     Outlines  of  Mediaval  and  Modern  History. 
Fyffe.     History  of  Modern  Europe. 
Gosse,  E.     Modern  Literature. 
Green.     History  of  the  English  People. 
Hodgkins,  L.  M.     Nineteenth  Century  Authors. 
Howett,  W.     Homes  and  Haunts  of  the  British  Poets. 
Jusserand,  J.  J.     English  Wayfaring  Life  in  the  Middle  Ages. 
Marsh.     Lectures  on  the  English  Language. 
McCarthy,  J.     History  of  Our  Own  Times. 
Mitchell,  D.  G.     English  Lands,  Letters,  and  Kings. 
Morley,  H.     First  Sketch  of  English  Literature. 
Morley,  H.     English  Writers. 

Oliphant.     Literary  History  of  England,  XVII Ith  and  XlXth   Cen- 
turies. 
Pancoast,  H.  S.     An  Introduction  to  English  Literature. 
Pepys,  S.     Diary. 

Poole.     Index  to  Periodical  Literature. 
Ryland.     Chronological  Outlines  of  English  Literature. 
Stephen,  L.     English  Thought  in  the  Eighteenth  Century. 
Symonds,  J.  A.     Shakespeare's  Predecessors  in  the  English  Drama. 
Taine.     English  Literature. 
Ten  Brink,  B.     English  Literature.     2  vols. 
Ward,  T.  H.     English  Poets.     5  vols. 
Welsh.     Development  of  English  Language  and  Literature. 
Winter,  W.     Shakespeare's  England. 
Winter,  W.     Old  Shrines  and  Ivy. 
Winter,  W.     Gray  Days  and  Gold. 

664 


CRITICAL  AND   SUGGESTIVE 

Aristotle.     On  the  Art  of  Poetry.     (Prickard.) 
Arnold,  M.      Culture  and  Anarchy. 
Arnold,  M.     Ess»ys  in  Criticism,    ist  and  2d  Series. 
Arnold,  M.     Addresses  in  America. 
Bagehot,  W.     Literary  Studies.     2  vols. 
Bayne,  P.     Lessons  from  My  Masters. 
Birrell,  A.     Obiter  Dicta.     2  vols. 
Birrell,  A.     Res  JudicatcB. 
Birrell,  A.     Men,  Women,  and  Books. 

Brooke,  S.  A.     Tennyson  :  His  Art  and  Relation  to  Modern  Life. 
Brooke,  S.  A.      Theology  in  the  English  Poets. 
Burroughs,  J.     Lndoor  Studies. 
Burroughs,  J.     Fresh  Fields. 
Burroughs,  J.     Birds  and  Poets. 
Caird,  E.     Literature  and  Philosophy, 
Carlyle,  T.     On  Heroes. 

Coleridge,  S.  T.    Principles  of  Criticism.    (Edited  by  A.  J.  George.) 
Cooke,  G.  W.     Poets  and  Problems. 
Corson,  H.     Aims  of  Literary  Study. 
Corson,  H.      The  Voice  and  Spiritual  Education. 
Couch,  A.  Q.     Adventures  in  Criticism. 
Courthope,  W.  J.     History  of  English  Poetry. 
Dawson,  W.  J.     Makers  of  Modern  English. 
Dawson,  G.     Biographical  Lectures. 
De  Vere.     Essays  on  Poetry. 
Dowden,  E.     Studies  in  Literature. 
Dowden,  E.     Ne7o  Studies  in  Literature, 
Dowden,  E.      Transcripts  and  Studies. 
Emerson,  R.  W.     Representative  Men. 
Gosse,  E.     Questions  at  Issue. 
Gosse,  E.     Critical  Kit  Kats. 
Harriso.n.  F.     Choice  of  Books. 
Harrison,  F.     Early  Victorian  Literature. 
Horace.      The  Art  of  Poetry.     (Edited  by  A.  S.  Cook.) 
Hudson,  H.     Essays. 

Hunt,  L.      What  is  Poetry?     (Edited  by  A.  S.  Cook.) 
66s 


^^  CRITICAL   AND   SUGGESTIVE 

Hutton,  R.  H.     Criticisms  on  Contemporary  Thoug/it  and  Thinkers. 

Hutton,  R.  H.     Literary  Essays. 

Hutton,  R.  H.     Modern  Guides  to  Thought  in  Matters  of  Faith. 

Johnson,  C.  F.      Three  Americans  and  Three  Englishmen. 

Jones,  H.     Browning  as  a  Philosophic  and  Religious  Teacher. 

Jonson.      Timber.     (Edited  by  F.  Schelling.) 

Kingsley,  C.     Literary  Essays. 

Lang,  A.     Essays  in  Little. 

Lang,  A.     Letters  to  Dead  Authors. 

Lowell,  J.  R.     Prose,  Vol.  IV. 

Mabie,  H.AV.     Literary  Interpretation. 

Mabie,  H.  W.     Studies  in  Literature. 

Masson,  D.      Wordsworth,  Shelley,  and  Keats. 

Masson,  D.     Edinburgh  Sketches  and  Memories. 

Maurice,  F.  W.     The  Friendship  of  Books. 

Minto,  VV.     Characteristics  of  English  Poets. 

Minto,  W.     Characteristics  of  English  Prose. 

Morley,  J.     Studies  in  Literature. 

Morris,  W.     Hopes  and  Fears  for  Art. 

Myers,  F.  W.  H.     Science  and  a  Future  Life. 

Myers,  F.  W.  H.     Essays.     (Modern.) 

Noel,  R.     Essays  on  Poetry. 

Palgrave,  F.  T.     Landscape  in  Poetry. 

Pater,  W.     Appreciations. 

Patmore,  C.     Religio  Poetce. 

Patmore,  C.     Principle  in  Art. 

Phelps,  W.  L.      The  English  Romantic  Movement. 

Robertson,  F.  W.     Addresses  and  Lectures. 

Ruskin,  J,     Sesame  and  Lilies. 

Sainte-Beuve.     Essays.     (Edited  by  E.  Lee.)  ^ 

Saintsbury,  G.     Corrected  Impressions. 

Saintsbury,  G.     Essays  in  English  Literature. 

Scherer,  E.     Essays  in  English  Literature. 

Scudder,  H.     Studies  in  Men  and  Books. 

Scudder,  V.  D.     Life  of  the  Spirit  in  Modern  English  Poetry. 

Shairp,  J.  C.     Aspects  of  Poetry. 

Shairp,  J.  C.     Studies  in  Poetry  and  Philosophy. 

Shairp,  J.  C.     Poetic  Interpretation  of  Nature. 

Shelley,  P.  B.     Defense  of  Poetry. 

Sidney,  P.     Apologie  for  Poetrie. 

Stedman,  E.  C.     Nature  of  Poetry. 

Stedman,  E.  C.      Victorian  Poets. 

Stephen,  L.     Hours  in  a  Library.     3  vols. 


CRITICAL   AND   SUGGESTIVE  66^ 

Symonds,  J.  A.     Essays  Speculative  and  Suggestive.     2  vols. 

Taylor,  H.     Critical  Essays. 

Thompson,  W.     Ethics  of  Literary  Art. 

Van  Dyke.     The  Poetry  of  Tennyson. 

Veitch.      Feeling  for  Nature  in  Scottish  Poetry. 

Watson,  W.     Excursions  in  Criticism. 

Whipple,  E.  P.     Essays  and  Reviews. 

Wilson>  W.     Mere  Literature. 

Wordsworth,  W.     Prefaces  on  Poetry.     (Edited  by  A.  J.  George.) 


GLOSSARY 


a',  all. 

abooD,  above. 

acorded  not,  was  not  fitting. 
adoun,  down. 
advowsen,  control. 
aften,  often. 
after,  according  to. 
aims,  irons, 
airt,  direction. 
albee,  although, 
als,  as. 

amaist,  almost, 
amang,  among. 
amblere,  a  horse  that  ambles, 
an',  and. 
ance,  once. 
anlaas,  short  knife, 
aright,  favorably. 
ar3rve,  arrival, 
ascendant,  horoscope, 
as  nowthe,  as  now. 
auld,  old. 

Austyn,   Saint   Austyn    ( Augus- 
tine). 
avaunce,  to  be  to  one's  advantage, 
avaunt,  to  boast. 
aventure,  adventure. 
ay,  ever, 
ayont,  beyond. 

baar,  bore, 
bairns,  children. 
baren,  carried, 
barres,  ornaments. 


basnet,  helmet. 

Bassoes,  Pashas. 

bauld,  shoulder. 

bedes,  beads. 

been,  to  be. 

beggestere,  beggarwoman. 

bell,  flower. 

belyve,  soon. 

berd,  beard. 

berye,  berry. 

bet,  better. 

beth,  are. 

bield,  shelter. 

biek,  bask. 

bifil,  befell. 

bifoon,  before. 

biggit,  builded. 

biginne,  to  begin. 

birkie,  spirited  fellow. 

bisette,  beset. 

biside,  near  to. 

bismotered,  besmutted. 

bisy,  busy. 

bit,  biddeth. 

blankmanger,  a  fricassee  of  ca- 

pon. 
blaws,  blows, 
bogles,  spirits. 
boille,  to  boil, 
bonnie,  beautiful, 
boold,  bold. 
boote,  remedy. 
bord,  table. 
bracer,  bowman's  arm  guard. 


668 


GLOSSARY 


669 


brae,  slope  of  hill. 

braw,  handsome. 

bree,  broth. 

breed,  bread. 

breem,  bream,  a  kind  of  fish. 

Britaigne,  Brittany. 

brood,  broad. 

burgeys,  burgess. 

burn,  stream. 

burnie,  small  stream. 

burn-brae,  stream  at  foot  of  hill. 

busk,  adorn. 

ca',  to  drive. 

ca',  call. 

caaf,  law  cases. 

calivers,  muskets. 

canna,  cannot. 

cannie,  carefully. 

carf,  carved. 

carpe,  to  chatter. 

Cartage,  Carthage. 

catel,  property. 

cauld,  cold. 

ceint,  girdle. 

celle,  religious  house. 

certes,  surely. 

certeyn,  certainly. 

champioun,  combatant. 

chaped,  capped. 

chapeleyne,  chaplain. 

chapman,  merchant. 

charitable,  kind. 

chasted,  subdued. 

chaunterie,  an  endowment  for 
chanting  masses. 

chevyssaunce,  borrowing  trans- 
actions. 

chiknes,  chickens. 

chows,  chews. 

chyvachie,  cavalry  expedition. 

clad,  clothed. 


claes,  clothes. 

cleere,  clearly. 

clenches,  puns. 

clennesse,  cleanness. 

cleped,  called. 

clerk,  scholar. 

cloke,  cloak. 

cloysterer,  inmate  of  a  cloister. 

cofre,  money  box. 

concent,  harmony. 

condicioun,  condition. 

conscience,  sympathy. 

consort,  society. 

contree,  country. 

convertite,  a  convert. 

cood,  cud. 

coof,  fool, 

corage,  courage. 

cote,  coat. 

coude,  knew. 

countour,  auditor  of  accounts. 

countrefete,  to  imitate. 

courtepy,  short  cloak. 

couth,  could. 

crack,  to  joke. 

cracknelles,  hard  biscuit. 

cramasie,  crimson  cloth. 

craw,  crow. 

cristen.  Christian. 

crulle,  curly. 

curch,  kerchief. 

custom,  to  enter. 

daliannce,  gossip. 
daunce,  olde,  old  game  or  custom, 
daungerous,  imperious, 
dayesye,  daisy. 
deed,  dead. 
deef,  deaf. 

deelen  with,  to  have  to  do  with, 
dees,  dice. 
i  delyvere,  active. 


6/0 


GLOSSAJiY 


Dertemouthe,  Dartmouth,  a  sea- 
port of  England, 
devyse,  speak  of. 
deyntee,  dainty, 
deyntees,  dainties, 
deys,  dais. 

dighted,  strove  to  stanch, 
digne,  worthy, 
dispence,  expense, 
dole,  sorrow. 
doon,  pi.,  do. 
dorste,  durst. 

doute,  out  of,  without  doubt, 
drawe,  drawn. 
drogte,  drought. 
dronken,  pi.,  drank, 
dyere,  dyer. 
dyvyne,  divine. 

echon,  each  one. 
ecstasy,  emotion, 
e'e,  eye. 
eek,  also. 
een,  pi.,  eyes. 
embrouded,  embroidered, 
endite,  to  write. 
ensample,  example, 
er,  ere. 

escapes,  mistakes, 
eschaunge,  exchange, 
esed,  entertained, 
esily,  easily. 
estaat,  state, 
estat,  estate, 
estatlich,  dignified, 
esy,  easy, 
evene,  moderate, 
everichon,  every  one. 
every  deel,  every  part, 
eveychon,  every  one. 
eydent,  diligent 
eyen,  pi.,  eyes. 


fa',  fall. 

facultee,  faculty,  estimate  of  him- 
self. 

fader,  father. 

faire  langage,  elegant  small  talk. 

faire,  fairly. 

fairness,  fairness  of  life. 

faldyng,  coarse  cloth. 

farsed,  crammed. 

faught,  fought. 

faulding,  folding. 

faut,  fault. 

feare,  frighten. 

fee  symple,  the  absolute  posses- 
sion, of  an  estate. 

felawe,  associate. 

fell,  bitterly. 

fer,  for. 

feme  =  ferrene,  distant. 

ferre,  farther. 

ferthing,  farthing. 

festne,  to  fasten. 

fetisly,  elegantly. 

fetys,  neatly  made. 

fil,  fell. 

fithele,  fiddle. 

Flaundyssh,  Flemish. 

fleet,  to  float. 

fley'd,  frighted. 

flitcherin',  fluttering. 

floytynge,  fluting. 

fond,  foolish. 

foo,  foe. 

footmantel,  leggings,  stretching 
from  hips  down  over  boots. 

for,  in  spite  of,  against. 

forehammers,  sledgehammers. 

foment,  in  the  face  of. 

fomeys,  furnace. 

for  sothe,  forsooth. 

forster,  forester. 

for  think,  repent  of. 


GLOSSARY 


671 


forward,  agreement, 
fother,  cartload. 
fowel,  fowl, 
frae,  from. 
fraught,  frightened. 
fro,  from. 
fu,  full, 
furs,  furrows. 

gae,  go. 
gaed,  went. 

gaf,  gave. 

galyngale,  sweet  cypress  root. 

gang,  to  go. 

garr'd,  made. 

gat  toothed,  with  teeth  far  apart. 

gauded,  having  the  large  beads 

(gaudies)  in  the  rosary, 
geere,  clothing, 
geldhalle,  guildhall, 
gentil,  well-bred, 
gere,  gear, 
gave,  to  give, 
ghaist,  ghost, 
gie,  give. 
gipser,  pouch, 
girdel,  girdle. 
goon,  to  go. 
governaunce,     management     of 

business. 
gowd,  gold, 
grace,  favor. 
gree,  prize, 
greet,  great. 

Grete  See,  the  Mediterranean, 
grys,  gray  fur. 
guid,  good, 
gurly,  stormy. 
gynglen,  to  jingle, 
gypon,  short  cassock. 

ha',  hall. 

haberdasshere,  a  seller  of  hats. 


habergeon,  coat  of  mail. 

hae,  have. 

haffet    locks,    locks    about    the 

temples. 
hafflins,  partly, 
hained,  spared. 
halesome,  wholesome. 
hallan,  a  partition  in  a  cottage. 
half-fou,  an  eighth  of  a  peck, 
halwes,  saints. 
happily,  haply. 
hardily,  boldly. 
hardy,  daring. 
Haribee,   place  of   execution   at 

Carlisle. 
hameised,  equipt. 
haunt,  skill. 
haut,  high. 
havenes,  havens, 
hawkie,  a  cow  with  a  white  face, 
heeld,  held, 
heeng,  hung. 
heeth,  heath. 
heigh,  high  (nose), 
hem,  them. 
hente,  to  seize. 
herberwe,  harbor, 
herry,  spoil. 

hethenesse,  heathen  land, 
hewe,  hue. 
hight,  was  called, 
him,  for  himself, 
hipes,  hips. 
histie,  dry. 
holden, regarded, 
holpen,  helped, 
holt,  wood, 
honeste,  becoming, 
hoot,  hot. 
hoote,  hotly, 
hors,  horses. 
horsely,  horse-like. 


/ 

6^2 


GLOSSARY 


hostelrye,  inn. 

hostiler,  innkeeper. 

houndes,  dogs. 

houres,  hours  (astrological). 

hussyfskip,  hoixsekeeping. 

Hulle,  Hull. 

hye,  high. 

hyer     hond,     advantage,    upper 

hand. 
hym-selven,  himself. 

i',  in. 

ilke,  same. 

infect,  rendered  invalid. 

ingle,  the  fireside. 

inne,  in. 

In  principio,  in  the  beginning. 

intil,  into. 

jauk,  joke, 
juste,  to  joust. 
justs,  tournaments. 

kan,  knows, 
kebbuck,  cheese. 
keepe,  care, 
ken,  know. 
kepe,  to  take  care  of. 
kept,  guarded, 
koude,  could,  knew, 
kowthe,  known, 
kye,  cows. 

laas,  lace. 

lady,  gen.,  lady's. 

lafte,  left,  failed. 

lave,  the  rest. 

lawing,  reckoning. 

lazar,  leper. 

lear,  lore. 

leed,  a  caldron,  coffer. 

leet,  let. 

lenger,  longer. 


lengthe,  height. 

leste,  pleasure. 

letuaries,  electuaries. 

levere,  rather,  liefer. 

lewed,  ignorant. 

licenciat,  one  licensed  to  hear 
confessions. 

licht,  light. 

licour,  liquor. 

lightly,  set  light  by. 

lint,  flax. 

lipsed,  lisped. 

liste,  it  pleaseth. 

lite,  little. 

lodemenage,  pilotage. 

lo'e,  love. 

lokkes,  hair. 

lond,  land. 

loore,  lore. 

lore,  teaching. 

loude,  loudly. 

lough  estat,  humble  estate. 

love  dayes,  days  for  settling  dis- 
putes. 

love  knotte,  indissoluble  union. 

low,  blaze. 

luce,  a  full-grown  pike. 

lust,  pleasure. 

lyart,  gray. 

lyk,  like. 

lymytour,  one  licensed  to  beg 
within  certain  limits. 

Ijmed,  lined. 

lyveree,  livery. 

maad,  made, 
made,  caused, 
maistrie,  mastery. 
maill,  rent. 
make,  companion. 
make  a  thing,  draw  up  a  docu- 
ment. 


GLOSSARY 


673 


maner,  manner, 
many  oon,  many  a  one. 
Martinmas,  the  eleventh  of  No- 
vember. 
marybones,  marrowbones, 
maun,  must, 
mayde,  maid. 

medlee  cote,  coat  of  mixed  stuff, 
meede,  meadow. 
meikle,  as  much,  great, 
men,  man. 
merye,  pleasant. 
meschief,  trouble. 
mesurable,  moderate, 
mete,  food. 
monie,  many. 
moone,  moon. 
mormal,  gangrene. 
morrwe,  morrow. 
mortreux,  a  stew, 
motteleye,  motley, 
muche  and  lite,  great  and  small, 
muchel,  a  great  deal. 
murye,  merry. 
muwe,  mew,  coop. 

na',  not. 

nae,  no. 

na  mo,  no  more. 

namoore,  no  more. 

nas  =  ne  was,  was  not. 

nat,  not. 

nathelees,  nevertheless. 

ne,  nor,  not. 

newe,  newly. 

noght,  not. 

nones,  for  the,  for  the  nonce. 

nonys,  for  the,  for  the  nonce. 

noot  =  ne  woot,  know  not. 

norissyng,  nutritious. 

not-heed,  closely  shaved  head. 

nowher,  nowhere. 

2X 


nowthe,  now. 
nyghtertale,  night  time. 

0',  of. 

of,  some  (Fr.  de  and  des). 

of,  by. 

of,  off. 

office,  position  (secular). 

offryng,  voluntary  contribution 
made  to  a  priest. 

ofhynge,  offering  (at  the  altar). 

oft-sithes,  ofttimes. 

olde  daunce,  old  game. 

oon,  one  (and  the  same). 

ooth,  oath. 

ordres  foure,  four  orders,  Do- 
minicans, Carmelites,  Francis- 
cans, and  Augustinians. 

outrely,  utterly. 

outridere,  outrider. 

overal,  everywhere. 

overeste,  uppermost. 

overhaile,  draw  over. 

owher,  anywhere. 

pace,  subj.,  go  on. 
pace,  to  pass. 
pacient,  patient, 
pacient,  enduring. 
painture,  painting. 
parfit,  perfect. 
parisshens,  parishioners. 
parritch,  oatmeal  gruel, 
partrich,  partridge. 
parvys,  church  porch, 
passed,  surpassed. 
patente,  letter  patent. 
peire,  pair. 

pers,  stuff  of  sky  blue  color, 
persoun,  parson,  priest. 
peyned  hire,  took  pains. 
pight,  pitched. 


6/4                                       GLOSSARY 

pituance,  portion  of  food. 

rood, rode. 

plentevous,  plenteous. 

row,  rough. 

pleyn,  full. 

pleyn,  adv.,  fully. 

sae,  so. 

pocock,  peacock. 

sair,  sore,  hard. 

pommel,  hilt  of  sword. 

sangwyn,  red. 

poraille,  fourfold. 

saugh,  saw. 

Portugals,  Portuguese  gold  coins. 

sautrie,  psaltery. 

post,  pillar. 

scambled,  gathered. 

poudre-marchant,  flavoring  pow- 

scathe, misfortune,  a  pity. 

der. 

scaud,  scald. 

poore,  to  pore. 

science,  legal  knowledge. 

poure  =  povre,  poor. 

scole,  school,  style. 

poynaunt,   high   seasoned,   pun- 

scoler, scholar. 

gent. 

scoleye,  to  go  to  school. 

preye,  to  pray. 

seege,  siege. 

prikasour,  hard  rider. 

seeke,  sick. 

priking,  fast  riding. 

semely,  properly,  seemly. 

pris,  prize. 

semycope,     short     ecclesiastical 

prys,  price. 

cloak. 

pulled,  plucked. 

sendal,  fine  silk. 

purchas,  acquisition. 

sendel,  linen. 

purtreye,  to  draw. 

seneschal,  steward. 

purvey,  provide. 

sesons,  seasons. 

pye,  pie. 

eethe,  to  seethe. 

pynched,  closely  pleated. 

sex,  sect. 

pynchen  at,  find  fault  with. 

seyde,  subj.,  would  say. 

quo,  saith. 

seyen,  to  say. 
shake,  shaken. 

rage,  romp. 

shaply,  suitable. 

raughte,  reached. 

sheeldes,  French  crowns. 

recchelees,  reckless. 

shipman,  merchant  sailor. 

reduce,  repair. 

sho,  shoe. 

redy,  ready. 

sholde,  should. 

reed,  red. 

shoon,  shone. 

regiment,  rule. 

shortly,  briefly. 

reiver,  robber. 

shyne,  shin. 

rente,  income. 

siege,  seat. 

resons,  opinions. 

sike,  sick. 

reule,  rule. 

sikerly,  surely. 

reysed,  done  military  service. 

sin,  since. 

rin,  run. 

sin,  sun. 

GLOSSARY 


67s 


skeely,  skilful. 

sleep,  slept. 

smerte,  smartly. 

smerte,  pain. 

smoot,  smote. 

snewed,  abounded. 

snybben,  to  snub. 

solempne,  sportive. 

solempnely,  pompously. 

som-del,  somewhat. 

somer,  summer. 

somtyme,  at  one  time. 

sondry,  several. 

soong,  sang. 

soore,  sorely. 

SOOte,  sweet. 

sooth,  truth. 

soothly,  truly. 

sope  in  wyn,  sop  in  wine,  bread 

dipped  in  wine. 
soper,  supper. 
souple,  supple. 
sownynge,  importing. 
spait,  flood. 
space,  time. 

speke,  of,  to,  in  respect  to. 
speken,  for,  to,  in  respect  to. 
spiced,  scrupulous. 
spier,  to  ask  for. 
splent,  armor. 
spores,  spurs. 

stacher,  walk  with  difficulty, 
stane,  stone. 
stear,  stir. 
stemed,  shone. 
stepe,  bright. 
sterres,  stars. 
stoor,  stock. 
stoure,  dust. 
streit,  strict, 
streite,  closely, 
strem,  stream. 


stronde,  shore,  strand, 
stuwe,  stew,  fishpond, 
substaunce,  means, 
suffi-saimce,  sufficiency, 
sugh,  a  rushing  sound. 
swich,  such. 
swjmk,  toil, 
swynken,  to  toil, 
synynge,  singing. 

tabard,  a  herald's  coat  of  arms, 
table  dormant,  sideboard. 
taSata,  silk  stuff. 
takel,  arrows. 
tale,  reckoning. 
tapicer,  upholsterer. 
tappestere,  barmaid, 
targe,  target,  shield, 
teche,  to  teach. 
tell,  to  count, 
tentie,  heedful. 
termes,  court  terms  (?). 
that,  the. 
theekit,  thatched, 
thencrees,  the  increase, 
ther  as,  where  that, 
thilke,  that  same, 
thoughte,  it  seemed, 
thries,  thrice. 
thriftily,  becomingly, 
thynketh,  it  seems, 
tickle,  unsteady. 
to  drive,  to  pass. 
to,  too. 

tomorn,  tomorrow. 
towmond,  a  twelvemonth, 
tretys,  shapely. 
trouthe,  fidelity,  truth, 
trysted,  hour  for  love  meeting. 
tydes,  tides. 

typet,  friar's  hood  or  cowl  used 
as  a  pocket. 


676 


GLOSSARY 


unco,  very, 
uncos,  strange  tales, 
undertake,  venture  to  say. 
undertake,  to  conduct  an  enter- 
prise. 
nnknowe,  unknown, 
unnethes,  scarcely. 

vavasour,  landholder, 
venerie,  hunting. 
verray,  very,  true, 
vertu,  virtue,  power, 
vertuous,  efficient 
viage,  voyage, 
vigilies,  vigils, 
villjmye,  villainy, 
vitaille,  provisions, 
vouche-saut,  to  vouchsafe. 

wa',  wall. 

wad,  would. 

wails,  chooses. 

waited  after,  watched  for. 

waly,  a  cry  of  lamentation. 

wan,  won. 

wantowne,  wanton. 

war,  aware. 

wastel  breed,  cake  bread. 

weams,  blotches. 

webbe,  weaver. 

wee,  little. 

weel,  well. 

ween,  think. 

welked,  withered,  waned. 

were,  to  wear. 

werre,  war. 

what,  why. 

whelp,  dog. 

wi,  with. 

wist,  pret.,  knew. 

wit,  to  know. 

withholde,  withheld,  took  it  easy. 

withouten,  outside  of. 


wo,  woful. 

wol,  will. 

wolde,  would,  wished. 

wonder,  wondrously. 

wonderly,  wonderfully. 

wone,  wont. 

wons,  dwells. 

wonjoige,  dwelling. 

wood,  mad. 

Woodhouselee,  the  house  of  Buc- 

cleuch  on  the  Border. 
WOOt,  know, 
write,  written, 
wroghte,  wrought, 
wrooth,  angry,  wroth, 
wydwe,  widow. 
wympul,  a  nun's  head  and  neck 

cloth,  wimple. 

y,    a    relic   of  Anglo-Saxon   ge, 

sign  of  the  past  participle, 
y-blent,  blended. 
y-bore,  borne. 
y-cleped,  called, 
yeddynges,  songs, 
yeman,  yeoman. 
yemanly,  yeomanly. 
yerde,  yard. 
y-falle,  fallen, 
y-go,  gone. 

y-knowe,  known.  * 

yont,  beyond, 
younkers,  young  ones, 
yow,  yourself. 
yowes,  ewes, 
y-purfiled,  trimmed, 
y-ronne,  run. 
y-shryve,  shriven, 
y-taught,  taught, 
y-teyd,  tied, 
y-wrought,  wrought. 
y-wympled,  wimpled. 


A   HISTORY 


EARLY  ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

Being  the  History  of  English  Poetry  from  its  Beginnings 
to  the  Accession  of  King  Alfred. 


REV.  STOPFORD  A.  BROOKE. 

WITH  MAPS. 

Large  izmo.    Qilt  top.    $2.50. 


NOTICES. 


"  I  had  been  eagerly  awaiting  it,  and  find  it  on  examination  distinctly  the 
best  treatise  on  its  subject. " 

—  Prof.  Charles  F.  Richardson,  Dartmouth  College. 

"  I  know  of  no  literary  estimate  of  Anglo-Saxon  poetry  that  in  breadth 
of  view  and  sympathetic  appreciation  can  be  compared  with  this." 

—  Prof.  W.  E.  Mead,  IVesleyan  University. 

"  In  this  work  we  have  the  view  of  a  real  lover  of  literature,  and  we  have 
its  utterance  in  a  diction  graceful  enough  to  make  the  reading  an  intellectual 
pleasure  in  itself." — The  Christian  Union. 

"  No  other  book  exists  in  English  from  which  a  reader  unacquainted 
with  Anglo-Saxon  may  gain  so  vivid  a  sense  of  the  literary  quality  of  our 
earliest  poetry." —  The  Dial. 

"  A  delightful  exposition  of  the  poetic  spirit  and  achievement  of  the 
eighth  century." — Chicago  Tributie. 

"  In  Mr.  Stopford  Brooke's  monumental  work  he  strives  with  rare  skill 
and  insight  to  present  our  earliest  national  poetry  as  a  living  literature,  and 
not  as  a  mere  material  for  research."  —  London  Times. 

"  It  is  a  monument  of  scholarship  and  learning,  while  it  furnishes  an 
authentic  history  of  English  literature  at  a  period  when  little  before  was 
known  respecting  it."  —  Public  Opinion. 

"  It  is  a  comprehensive  critical  account  of  Anglo-Saxon  poetry  from  its 
beginnings  to  the  accession  of  King  Alfred.  A  thorough  knowledge  of  the 
Anglo-Saxon  language  was  needed  by  the  man  who  undertook  such  a  weighty 
enterprise,  and  this  knowledge  is  possessed  by  Mr.  Brooke  in  a  degree 
probably  unsurpassed  by  any  living  scholar."  — Evening  Bulletin. 


THE   MACMILLAN   COMPANY, 

66   FIFTH  AVENUE,  NEW  YORK. 


A    HISTORY 


ELIZABETHAN   LITERATURE. 


BY 

GEORGE    SAINTSBURY, 

Price,  $1.00,   net. 


NOTICES. 


"  Mr.  Saintsbury  has  produced  a  most  useful,  first-hand  survey  —  com- 
prehensive, compendious,  and  spirited  —  of  that  unique  period  of  literary 
history  when  '  all  the  muses  still  were  in  their  prime.'  One  knows  not 
where  else  to  look  for  so  well-proportioned  and  well-ordered  conspectus  of 
the  astonishingly  varied  and  rich  products  of  the  turning  English  mind 
during  the  century  that  begins  with  Tortel's  Miscellany  and  the  birth  of 
Bacon,  and  closes  with  the  restoration." —  The  Dial. 

"  Regarding  Mr.  Saintsbury's  work  we  know  not  where  else  to  find  so 
compact,  yet  comprehensive,'  so  judicious,  weighty,  and  well  written  a 
review  and  critique  of  Elizabethan  literature.  But  the  analysis  generally 
is  eminently  distinguished  by  insight,  delicacy,  and  sound  judgment,  and 
that  applies  quite  as  much  to  the  estimates  of  prose  writers  as  to  those  of 
the  poets  and  dramatists.  ...  A  work  which  deserves  to  be  be  styled 
admirable."  —  JVew  York  Tribune. 

"  The  work  has  been  most  judiciously  done  and  in  a  literary  style  and 
perfection  of  which,  alas,  the  present  era  has  furnished  too  few  examples." 

—  Christian  at  H^ork. 


THE   MACMILLAN   COMPANY, 

66    FIFTH   AVENUE.  NEW  YORK. 


A   HISTORY 

OF 

EIGHTEENTH    CENTURY 
LITERATURE. 

(1660-1780.) 

BY 

EDMUND    GOSSE,  M.A., 
Clark  Lecturer  in  English  Literature  at  Trinity  College,  Cambridge. 

Price,  $1.00,  net. 


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"  Mr.  Gosse's  book  is  one  for  the  student  because  of  its  fulness,  its  trust- 
worthiness, and  its  thorough  soundness  of  criticisms;  and  one  for  the  gen- 
eral reader  because  of  its  pleasantness  and  interest.  It  is  a  book,  indeed,  not 
easy  to  put  down  or  to  part  with." 

,  —  Oswald  Crawfurd,  in  London  Academy. 

"  Mr.  Gosse  has  in  a  sense  preempted  the  eighteenth  century.  He  is 
the  most  obvious  person  to  write  the  history  of  its  literature,  and  this  attrac- 
tive volume  ought  to  be  the  final  and  standard  work  on  his  chosen  theme." 

—  The  Literary  World. 
"  We  have  never  had  a  more  useful  record  of  this  period." 

—  Boston  Evening  Traveler. 
"  A  brilli?nt  addition  to  critical  exposition.  Written  in  a  finished  and 
elegant  style,  which  gives  enchantment  even  to  the  parts  of  the  narrative  of 
a  biographical  and  statistical  character,  the  work  illumines  obscure  writings 
and  literature  and  brings  new  interest  to  famous  ones.  One  of  its  great 
excellences  is  the  easy  transition  made  from  one  style  of  writing  to  another. 
The  plan  is  distinct  and  well  preserved,  but  the  continuity  between  parts  is 
so  close  that  unity  and  coherence  mark  the  work  in  a  material  degree." 

—  Boston  yournal. 


THE    MACMILLAN    COMPANY, 

66   FIFTH   AVENUE,  NE^A;^   YORK. 


A    HISTORY 

OF 

NINETEENTH    CENTURY 
LITERATURE. 

(1780-1895.) 


GEORGE    SAmXSBURY, 

Professor  of  Rhetoric  and  English  Literature  in  the 
University  of  Edinburgh. 

Price,  $1.50. 


NOTICES. 


"  Mr.  George  Saintsbury  is  by  all  odds  the  most  versatile,  sound,  and 
entertaining  of  English  literary  critics,  and  his  book  is  deserving  of  the 
widest  reading.  In  his  genial,  yet  just  way  of  judging  he  carries  us  from 
Cowper  to  the  writers  of  to-day,  touching  all  with  the  nimbleness  of  his  wit 
and  the  general  unerring  accuracy  of  his  opinions."  —  Boston  Traveler. 

"  In  the  clear  definition  it  gives  to  leading  writers,  its  systematic  group- 
ings, and  its  appreciation  of  main  lines  of  development,  it  is  wonderfully 
illuminating.  The  judgments  passed  upon  noteworthy  writers  .  .  .  afford 
in  combination  a  body  of  criticism  that  the  student  of  English  literature 
.  .  .  cannot  hereafter  venture  to  ignore."  —  The  Beacon. 

"  There  can  be  no  possible  doubt  that  Mr.  Saintsbuiy's  work  is  one  of 
the  best  critical  manuals  of  the  period  which  it  covers." 

—  Philadelphia  Evening  Bulletin. 

"  It  is  an  admirable  book."  —  New  York  Mail  and  Express. 

"Thorough  is  the  term  to  apply  to  Mr.  Saintsbury's  book;  there  is  the 
stamp  of  deliberate,  scholarly  research  on  every  page.  .  .  .  Done  so  well 
as  to  make  it  extremely  difficult  to  find  fault,  is  the  best  proof  of  the  excel- 
lence of  his  work."  —  Commercial  Advertiser. 


THE    MACMILLAN   COMPANY, 

66   FIFTH   AVENUE,  NEW  YORK. 


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